The Unusual Suspects
by katkrap
Summary: A Superwholock Epic updated  bi weekly on TUMBLR; when the Winchesters run into a madman with a blue box, a consulting detective, and an army doctor, they have no idea what they're actually getting into. Nor that hell is interested, as well.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Updates and side-stories featured on .com. Really, only uploading here so that my Tumblr followers can read on their kindles. If you want to contact me, do so on my tumblr. The ideas aren't mine, but the storyline, original characters, etc, are mine and are my intellectual property. PLEASE if you want to draw art, write story spin-offs, etc; CONTACT ME FIRST. I'm usually really good at getting back and giving permission, just give me a heads up.

ENJOY!

* * *

><p>Dean flopped onto the sofa, kicked his feet onto the small motel coffee table and began rummaging in the white paper bag for one of the four "super deluxe bacon cheeseburgers with extra sauce" he'd picked up from a place up the street. He was about to take a bite when he looked up to see Sam staring at him from over the top of his laptop. "What?"<p>

"Forgetting something?" Sam asked.

Dean paused a moment. He looked down at the bag in his lap, the burger in his hand, the bag on the table, then back at the burger. "Oh! Right." He set down the burger, hurried across the room to the mini-fridge and grabbed himself a beer. He leaned over to the table Sam was working with and popped the lid off. At the look on Sam's face, Dean frowned. "What? You want one?"

"You're such a loser," Sam muttered, pushing off the desk and letting the wheels of the chair take him to the coffee table where he picked up the bag with his share of the food.

Dean took a swig. "That's a no then?"

"No drinking during work hours, Dean. And unlike you," Sam said, wheeling back to the table. "I've been working a case."

"Hey," Dean said. "I've been working it, too, okay?"

Sam gave him a look. "Going to the bar and sizing up chicks is not working a case." He unfolded a napkin then dumped his fries on it. "And I don't think Cas would appreciate it."

"I didn't size up anyone," Dean said, already two bites in. "I looked into that alleyway we followed it down, checked the side streets, the sewers—"

"Did you find anything?"

Dean shook his head. "Clean as a whistle," he said around a mouthful of burger. He took a moment to chew and swallow, then added, "What the hell kind of shifter _changes_, but doesn't leave anything to show for it?"

"Yeah, still trying to figure that out," Sam sighed. "So far, the list of what it's not is longer than what it could be."

"So what isn't it?"

Sam clicked up another window. "Well, there's no leftovers when it changes, and no lens flare on the security footage I picked up, so it's not a shifter. It ran out of that burning building like it was a morning stroll, so it's not a changling."

"Ghoul?" Dean asked.

Sam shook his head. "It's not eating its kills."

"Maybe it's saving them for later."

"Then why kill at all?" Sam asked. "I mean, it just doesn't make any sense."

"But we can't rule it out, right?" Dean asked. "So next time we see it, bam. Shotgun to the head, machete to the neck for good measure." He moved to take another bite, then hesitated. "Hey… do you think maybe this is a new thing? Like something we haven't encountered yet, or—"

Sam didn't so much as look up from his computer. "We are _not_ letting you name another species."

"Oh come on!" Dean groaned. "Jefferson Starships? That was a perfect name!"

"Doesn't exactly roll off the tongue," Sam muttered. "Besides, with Eve dead, the chances of us running into something that no hunter has ever run across are more than slim."

Dean nodded to himself. "Yeah, okay. You call Bobby on this one?"

"Yeah, he put some feelers out but he hasn't… hasn't heard any… anything back fr…" Sam was staring out at the parking look. "Dude… come look at this."

Dean sighed. "Sam. I'm trying to enjoy a burger—"

"I know, I know, just…" He gestured out the window as Dean came over and stood next to him. "You seeing what I'm seeing?"

There was a tall slender man in a well-cut suit and a brown trench coat wandering the parking lot and turning from room to room. Every now and again, he would pull an item from his pocket and wave it at the doors. It would glow, he would glance at it, and then he would go back to wandering. He scratched the underside of his chin and turned in a circle before starting in the other direction in some strange mix of a skip and foxtrot. He came to a sudden stop, licked his finger and held it up to the wind.

Sam chuckled. "The hell is that all about?"

"Meth addict with a blue glowstick," Dean muttered. "Town this lame, and you're surprised?" The man suddenly shouted something and took off running. Dean leaned and watched him dart around the corner. "Yup, there he goes." He reached up and pulled the blinds shut, glanced down at Sam. "I'll have some of whatever he's having, am I right?"

"You've already got three more of what you're having," Sam said, giving Dean a little shove. "So finish it up so we can check out the warehouse."

"Warehouse, what warehouse?"

Sam gestured. "Outside of town. It's been abandoned for years, but one of the tenants from the apartment building says there are lights going on in there." Sam smirked. "There's no power running to the building anymore."

"You think it's our guy," Dean said.

Sam shrugged. "Everyone needs a place to crash, right?"

"Right, right," Dean muttered. "Okay, let me finish off these bad boys, and we'll hit the road."

Sam shut his laptop and began packing his things. "I'll start loading up the car."

Dean watched his brother ready things in silence. Sam reached for the door and Dean snapped his fingers. "Hey!" He waited for Sam to look at him. "Don't take any candy or glowsticks from strangers or meth addicts, okay? I don't need you getting any more derpy."

Sam snorted, "ass."

"Ass_butt_," Dean corrected, but Sam had already closed the door.

* * *

><p>Sam and Dean parked the Impala on the far side of the building. They tossed a bag of equipment (two sawed-off shotguns, two machetes, an extra box of shells , and a can of salt and a Dasani bottle of now-holy water—just in case) over the fence, then after clipping back the barbed wire, climbed over themselves.<p>

Dean was already handing Sam one of the shotguns and shouldering the bag when the younger man dropped down off the fence. He kept his voice low as he pulled the mini maglight from the side pocket of the dufflebag. "Okay, so where's the door to this place?"

"East side," Sam said, checking the rounds in the gun before snapping it back closed.

Dean nodded. "On it."

They walked as softly as possible over the loose gravel, only stopping once as something rustled on the other side of the fence. Sam had it in his sights before Dean had even turned the flashlight in its direction. The glow caught the rabbit's eyes, turning them vibrant purple, yellow, green all in an instant, and then the creature was gone.

Dean let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. "Damn animals," he muttered.

Sam rolled his eyes. "Okay, look, door just around the corner here, so keep—"

Both brothers stopped as Dean shone his light at the door; and at the tall, slender man in a well-cut suit and a brown trench coat crouched down in front of the door and pointing his blue glowstick at the doorknob. He glanced at them once, then a second time before rising to his full height—taller than Dean, but not as tall as Sam. He beamed at them, blue eyes lighting up. "Oh! Locals! I love locals! Hello locals, fine evening, innet?"

Dean's eyebrows went up as he turned to look at Sam. "Dude, check it," he muttered through his teeth. "Meth addict is _British_."

Sam stared at the man. "Um… we're not locals."

"Oh, me neither," the man said.

Dean gave the man a deadpan smirk. "Clearly."

"Oh, look at that," the man said, his smile fading. "You brought guns."

Sam seemed to remember the shotgun he was still holding at the ready position and dropped it to his side. "Oh, yeah, we're—"

"FBI," Dean said without missing a beat. "Following up on a lead with a, uh… _drug_ case. So if you don't mind—"

"Haaaaaate guns," the man said, not looking away from Sam's firearm.

"Yeah, well, considering we're on official business, I'm going to have to ask you to step aside."

The man's blue eyes flicked up to Dean, and he looked between the two brothers. "Oh, that's… not going to be necessary, as I… am…" He began digging through his inner pockets, finally pulling out a worn leather case and flashing his badge to them. "Also here on the same case."

Sam and Dean both blinked. After a moment, Dean looked up. "You're an agent?"

The man glanced at the badge, then looked at the two and nodded. "Yup. Well, more of an investigator. Well, maybe not investigator so much as chatty-fellow who talks people down from stupid action and that sort of thing, yeah."

Dean's mouth kept opening and closing without making sound. Sam gave a little laugh. "Sorry, we just, uh… weren't informed there were other agents on the case. Look, why don't we just… give your superior a quick call, let them know that—"

"We've got this one," Dean said.

The man shook his head. "Nope."

Sam's eyes narrowed. "Nope?"

"No time," the man said, glancing over his shoulder at the door. He continued talking, though it was almost more to himself at that point. "My superior is… very busy. No time to talk. On vacation actually. Somewhere nice. Sunny." He frowned. "Americans like sunny, right? Yeah, sunny."

Dean's mouth twitched into a tense grin. "Look, uh… Agent Whatsyername. We got it this one. So…" He clapped a hand on the taller man's shoulder, which he looked at with some degree of confusion as Dean continued. "Why not hit the showers, catch the game, grab a beer at the bar, and we'll meet up with you and debrief after we clean up here. How's that sound t—?"

A deafening sound that was like metal on metal tore through the air, and suddenly green light shot from every window of the empty warehouse, lighting up the surrounding field and the night sky beyond. Just as suddenly as it came, the sound stopped. The light did not.

The thin man turned, taking what was clearly not a glowstick out of his pocket and pointing it at the doorknob. "Counter-offer," he said. "Go back to your car and drive as far away as you can."

"Excuse me?" Dean snarled.

"Or come in, stay behind me, and don't make any sudden movements." He glanced at Sam. "And don't go waving that thing around in there, you'll startle it."

Sam frowned. "Startle what—?"

"Oh, so you and your fancy glow have this thing covered?" Dean asked.

The knob to the warehouse suddenly clicked. The man flicked his wrist and the device slid shut as he opened the door.

Dean blinked. "That didn't do that." He looked at Sam. "Tell me that didn't do th—"

"Who the hell are you?" Sam asked.

The man smirked at him, giving a little bounce in his red converse sneakers. "I'm the Doctor," he said, then disappeared into the warehouse.

Dean stared at the door, pointed after the now-gone man. "The Doctor? No. That dude is a _weirdo_. Oh, no. No, Sammy, no," he grumbled as Sam grabbed for the door, held it open. "Tell me we are _not_ following that guy in there."

Sam shrugged. "Like we haven't gotten out of weirder scrapes?"

"Yeah, but not with baggage attached!"

"Like we have a choice?"

Dean's eyes narrowed. "Shit goes down, it's on your head," he grumbled, then snatched the shotgun out of Sam's hands, shoved the bag at him. "I want the gun," he said.

Sam sighed. "Just… don't be trigger happy, okay? Play it cool?"

"I'm _always_ cool. I'm a motherfucking cucumber, that's how cool I am… sexy-ass cucumber being led to his death by a crazy weirdo in a suit and a trench coat who wants to save us with a glowstick."

"You gonna bitch all night or we actually going in there?" Sam asked.

"Yeah, yeah. I'm going. I'm going." And with that, Dean ducked inside the building.

* * *

><p>Dean had taken three steps in when he stopped dead in his tracks. "Sam… What. The hell. Is <em>that<em>?"

Sam and Dean stared at… whatever it was at the center of the empty warehouse. At first glance, it seemed to be a tall, steel pillar with several coils shooting off and attaching to pylons of a sort that surrounded it. However, and quite impossibly, at the top of the pillar, there was a green, sparking orb. It lit up the entire bleak space, casting long dark shadows from the beams of the warehouse. Shadows, they were all too content to stay in.

"Do you see anything?" Sam asked.

"Man, I don't know what I'm seeing right now," Dean snapped. "And where the hell is the crazy Brit?"

"_Oi!"_

The two brothers stared as the man they'd only just met as he strode forward into the center of the warehouse. Dean's eyes widened. "What is he doing? What the hell is he doing? Is he _crazy_—?"

"We know you're here!" the (apparent) Doctor shouted up at the rafters, spinning in a circle. "The trail of bodies, the missing shipment of plutonium from two cities over, and you thought no one would find you?" He chuckled. "You really thought no one was _watching_?"

"Dude!" Sam hissed. "Doctor! Get back here!"

The Doctor flapped a hand at him. "It's fine. He's harmless, this is all just a big—"

A beam of red hit the ground at the Doctor's feet, scorching the ground and leaving the air smelling of electricity and ozone. The Doctor blinked, and looked up in the direction that the shot had come from. "Well, mostly harmless." Another shot, this time grazing his trenchcoat as the Doctor scrambled over toward the two brothers. "Get in cover! Get in cover!"

"What cover?" Sam shouted as a blast pinged off a metal girder near his head.

Dean looked around the warehouse, eyes settling on the abandoned office on the far end of the building. "We'll make a run for it! On the count of three!"

"What?" Sam gasped. "Are you seri—"

Dean let out a sharp breath. "You heard me! Ready? One—"

A blast pinged off the floor sending chunks of cement to embed in the wall behind them.

Dean blinked. "Fuck it. Three!"

And they _ran_.

It was like something out of Star Wars, Dean thought to himself. He was a regular Harrison Ford, and that stormtrooper couldn't hit the broadside of an AT-AT. That wasn't entirely true. He had to jump over a crater made by the gun in the floor once or twice. He felt bits of debris bouncing off his leather jacket and dust settling on his face. But overall, while the experience should have been terrifying, all he could really feel in the end, was that he was, without a doubt, a mother-fucking badass.

The three crouched down in the office as the glass from windows shattered around them, raining down over their heads.

Sam looked at the Doctor while Dean checked his gun. "I thought you said it was harmless!"

"Mostly harmless!" the Doctor shouted back over the firefight. "Oi! No, what are you doing!" he snapped, grabbing at Dean's arm.

"Busting a cap in this guy's ass!" Dean snapped, trying to shake the Doctor loose.

"Wait, wait! Hold up a tick!" the Doctor said, pulling Dean back down to crouch on the floor. "Don't shoot him! We need him!"

"Need him?" Dean asked. "What for?"

"Long story," the Doctor said. "Just… hang on…" He shifted at a strange angle and began digging in his pocket until he produced a cellphone. Sam squinted at screen as the Doctor opened a text message.

_4420334789: Have recovered first part. Come round when you've found second. –SH_

The Doctor settled back against the wall and began typing a response.

"Dude! Seriously?" Dean snapped. "You're texting during a firefight?"

"It's a plasma rifle," the Doctor said, matter-of-factly. "They're prone to overheat, especially if you forget to vent them every few shots. He hasn't vented once since we came in, which means, the rifle is going to shut itself down in about, oh…"

The warehouse went quiet, save the steady hum of the steel pillar and the green glow above it. There was a sound of grunting, someone hitting an open palm against an item before tossing it aside and cursing.

The Doctor looked at the two brothers and beamed. "Now." Before either could say another word, the Doctor was on his feet and on his way out.

"Dammit, I wish he would stop doing that," Dean muttered.

"Yes, hello!" The Doctor shouted up at the second story. "Now that we're all done with being all mad and shooty, how about you come down here and we have a little talk."

Nothing.

"Oh, come now, m'not gonna bite you. Just come out where I can see you."

From behind the shadows of the boxes, a figure appeared. A woman, the same woman who Sam and Dean had seen killed in the building fire not so much as a day earlier, stepped up to the edge of the floor, staring down at the Doctor.

Sam looked at his brother. "Dean are you—?"

Dean nodded. "Yeah, but I don't believe it."

The Doctor smiled at the woman. "There. That wasn't so hard, was it?"

She just glared and folded her arms across her chest.

"Now," the Doctor said, shoving his hands in his pockets. "Can we talk like rational beings for five minutes?"

The woman's face twisted in anger. In a voice that was deep, resonant, and distinctly non-feminine, she shouted, "_vbrosh da skleet geh!"_

"'What do we have to talk about'?" The Doctor chuckled. "What don't we have to talk about? But first, how about we talk about the reactor core you stole?"

"_Torgash!"_

"Oi, there's no need for that kind of language!" the Doctor snapped. "I mean, it's obvious you've got it here. How else would you be able to start building an engine like this?" He gestured at the steel pillar. "I mean, this… this is real craftsmanship. And I'm betting you did it all by hand. From Twenty-First Century human tech, no less. Very impressive." He held up a finger. "But… not impressive? Carving your way through a steel mill and five staff members to get supplies. And what? You thought if you moved your little project to America they wouldn't ever find you? That no one would care if you killed off a few humans? Is that it?"

Silence.

"Now, your record wasn't squeaky clean to begin with," the Doctor continued, reaching into his coat and pulling out a pad of paper. "Petty theft, robbery, robbery with a weapon—"

"_Strabo yov adtka."_

The Doctor's face softened and he looked up at the woman. "I know. And there are thousands on that world, also starving. But _they _didn't pick up guns and threaten other starving families for food, did they? You did. And then you got caught. And now you have to make things right. Besides, where did they pick you up?" The Doctor shrugged. "Talosi Region in Sector Four? That sentence is a slap on the wrist. Not even a year, and you'd be back home. But this?" The Doctor said, gesturing at the floor. "You kill two guards getting off that crashed shuttle, kill four humans in a British Steel Mill, and then you kill three more humans when you get to America?" The Doctor shook his head, mouth gone thin. "That's murder. That's _lifetime_ if you're _lucky_. Now…"

The Doctor crossed to the metal pillar, tugging at a spherical object and pointing the "blue glowstick" at it, buzzing until it popped loose. He tucked it under his arm. "I'm escorting you out of here. _Now_. You're going to return what you took, you're going to get back on that shuttle, and you're going to answer for what you've done here. And if you don't come quietly, well…" His face was a blank, eyes suddenly ages older than what his body suggested. He lifted his chin. "I'm the Doctor. Think about that a moment."

The woman's jaw worked in a slow circle. Slowly, she reached up and put her hands behind her head.

The Doctor nodded. "I thought you might say that." He looked back at the office. "Oh, and um… I've got two associates with me, so don't even think about trying to make another run for it." He pointed two fingers at his eyes, then pointed them back at the woman above them before walking back toward the office. He stuck his head through the now-empty window pane, and smiled at the two brothers. "Crisis averted," he said. "Go round him up. Oh!" He pulled out a set of not-quite handcuffs from one of his pocket and handed them to Sam. "You'll need these."

Sam held them up in front of his face. "How do they, uh…?"

"Just press the little buttons on the side," Doctor said. "Opens and closes them unless they detect their around the limbs of any lifeform, in which case they'll require the master key to get them open again. So… don't try 'em on."

Sam's brow was creased with worry as he stared at the cuffs. He gave a weak shrug. "Yeah. Yeah, okay." He pushed himself to his feet and stared toward the stairs.

Dean started to rise when the Doctor flicked him on the nose. Dean fell back to the floor, startled and blinking. He rubbed at his face with his forearm, shouted, "What the hell was that for?"

"No guns," the Doctor said. "Just… set it down for a moment. You can have it back later." Dean's jaw set. He took a deep breath and set the gun down on the floor, glaring at the Doctor. The Doctor smiled and gave him a wink. "Thanks much."

Dean made a face and pulled himself up off the floor. "_Dick." _He dusted himself off and walked out of the office to find Sam leading the woman down from the upper floor.

The Doctor stepped in front of her, picking up the amber-colored amulet from her necklace and turning it in his fingers. "I suppose we won't need this, anymore. Will we?" He gave the necklace a sharp tug, snapping the silver chain and pocketing the amulet.

No sooner had the chain broken than the woman before them turned into a blue-skinned… thing. It was partly human, save for the dog-like teeth and the four extra eyes. That didn't stop the two brothers from staring.

The Doctor looked between them. "What? Never seen a Talosarion before?" When neither of them responded, the Doctor went to checking their prisoner's bonds. "Talosarion, from the far moons of the Fourth Sector of the planet Tal'o? No? What exactly did you think you were chasing?"

"We were hoping for a ghoul," Sam murmured, still looking a little shaken.

"Ooh, ghoul," the Doctor chuckled. "Never met one of those." He leaned back. "Alright, cuffs all secure. About time for me to get this one back where he belongs, innet?"

The creature merely grunted, eyes narrowed and teeth bared.

"Aw, don't mind him," The Doctor said, shrugging. "So, how about it?"

Sam frowned. "How about what?"

The Doctor shoved his hands into the pockets of his trenchcoat, swinging from side to side. "Taking this one back in, you maybe wanna… tag along? See where he's off to?"

"Man, who _are_ you?" Sam asked, unable to stop the smile on his face.

"I told you. I'm the Doctor—"

"No, I mean…" Sam chuckled. "Like, are you a Hunter? M16, Men in Black, what?"

The Doctor shrugged, then smirked. "Wanna find out?"

"What, Rocket Man?" Dean asked. "You just parked your spaceship in the field?"

The Doctor made a face. "Oh, heavens no." He pointed. "Parked it at the door."

"You parked your spaceship at the door?" Sam repeated. "Like… the door we came in? What is it, like… invisible, or…?"

The Doctor smiled. "Oh, humans. Love humans. Brilliant, you lot. A little thick, sometimes, but absolutely brilliant." The Doctor nodded. "Come on, off we go."

"Whoa, wait," Dean said. "Who says we're going?"

The Doctor pursed his lips. He gestured at Sam. "Incredibly curious and massively intrigued," then at Dean, "brother, I bet, you'd follow him to hell and back to protect him, _yeah_… you're both coming along." He practically ran toward the door, stopping halfway to call back. "Oh! And bring him along!"

The two brothers looked at the blue-skinned creature. Dean scoffed. "I'm not touching it," he grumbled, and stalked off after the Doctor.

* * *

><p>"So, explain it to me again…"<p>

"It's a TARDIS," The Doctor said, skipping from panel to panel around the centerpiece of what was, apparently as the two American brothers were learning, their companion's space ship. "Time and Relative Dimension in Space."

"So it's another dimension," Sam said, still looking around the main room in awe. "Gods, I mean… I've read scifi before, but this… this is some seriously mind-bending stuff. And you can go, what…. Anywhere in the world? Just like that?"

The Doctor beamed at Sam and flipped a lever. "Anywhere in the world. And space. _And_ time."

Sam pointed at his feet. "This is a time machine? We… we're standing in a time machine?"

"Mm-hm," the Doctor said, fiddling with what appeared to be a whack-a-mole game. "Time machine, space machine, anything-chine. I'd ask where you boys wanted to go, buuuut I have an obligation with this lug here," he said, nodding at the prisoner.

The Talosarian's six eyes narrowed to slits, and the same rumbly voice spoke in short, angry tones. "I will grind your bones and eat the heads of your children—"

"Yeah, good luck with that from behind seventeen types of energy barricades," the Doctor muttered, typing a few numbers into some kind of computer.

Sam frowned, pointing at the alien. "You speak English?"

"No," the Doctor said as he continued to type. "You speak Talosarian."

Sam shook his head. "Um, pretty sure I don't."

"You do now," the Doctor said, giving Sam a smile. He gestured at the ceiling with a pencil. "TARDIS, it translates every language. He's hearing our conversation in his tongue, you're hearing it in yours and…" The Doctor pointed at the far end of the room. "Is he quite alright?"

Sam looked over where the Doctor had pointed and let out a sigh. Dean was sprawled against the wall at an impossible angle; one knee on the ground, the other arched to help him keep balance, and both hands gripping onto the metal pieces of the wall behind him. He was breathing shallow and his normally tan skin was now pasty gray.

Sam rubbed his hands together. "Oh… yeah, um… takeoff might have startled him. He doesn't do well with flying."

The Doctor made a face. "Ah, well… yes, that would do it. On the up and up, however…" He began pulling at the organ stoppers, grinning. "We… are…" He slammed a hand down on the toy piano and turned back to Sam. "Here." He bounced down the steps to the door below. "Mind grabbing the luggage?"

The Talosarian pulled away from Sam, snarled, "I shall rend the limbs from your body and eat the skin off your eyes—!"

"You're not the first guy to say that," Sam muttered, grabbing for the Talosarian's cuffs. "Come on. Up."

The Doctor waved a hand in front of Dean's face. "Hullo? You still with us?" Dean's mouth moved wordlessly as the Doctor patted his cheek. "Ah, there we are. Up an' at 'em, right? Can you move?"

Dean nodded, but when the Doctor pulled his arm from the wall, he collapsed to the floor, face-first. He groaned. "I don't feel so good."

"Let's get you some fresh air then, come on," the Doctor said. He pulled Dean's arm around his shoulders and helped the man to his feet. "Attaboy, just a few more steps."

Dean blinked at the all-too bright light. This night had been too much so far. He felt like he had a hangover, but he hadn't had a drop since the hotel. "Where the hell are we?" he asked as the Doctor propped him up against a crate.

"Baker's Street," the Doctor said with a sigh. "Well, right now we're in an alley-way, but the alleyway of Baker's Street. But where we are going is there," he said, pointing up, "221B. Nice place. Quaint, messy, but understandably so, considering." He pointed at the other end of the alleyway. "Fire escape there."

"It's morning," Dean muttered, still trying to wrap his brain around everything that had just happened in the last hour.

The Doctor nodded, smiling.

"It was night. Like, late night. Like midnight."

The Doctor kept smiling. "Not in England."

"Is it a good idea to be just… chilling here? In public?" Sam asked, looking around. "With, uh… this?" He shook the Talosarian's cuffs.

The Doctor pursed his lips. "Ah, no problem, no problem. I just…" He began patting down his pockets. "Hang on…" He finally pulled out a cell phone and began texting. "Let me just… get someone on it." He snapped the keyboard back into the phone and smiled. "There."

Dean raised an eyebrow. "What, you phone Captain Kirk to beam us up?"

The Doctor snorted. "Don't be ridiculous. I texted John to lower the fire escape."

"John?" Sam asked.

"Watson," Doctor said. "Brilliant, that one. Tiny, but brilliant. Sincere, honest, hard-working, and surprisingly unphased by everything that's happened so far."

"Everything that's happened so far?" Sam repeated slowly. "What does that mean? Everything that has happened so far?"

"Did you find it?"

The three looked up at the blonde man shouting down at them. The Doctor bounced onto his feet. "Yes!" he said as John kicked down the fire escape. "Yes, it was there. We found it right, ooh, hold on a moment…" He reached into his pocket, then refastened the amulet back around the Talosarian's neck. "Just to be safe," he muttered, then started up the fire escape, shouting, "yes! Right where he said it should be, so well done all around."

"So where is it?" John asked. "A-and who are they?"

"It being the item is in the TARDIS, and them as in they are…." The Doctor stopped where he stood, across from John, glancing at the two men on the fire escape below him. He made a face. "Y'know, I'm not sure. Agents, yeah? FBI?"

John blinked. "FB—you brought FBI agents into this?"

Sam was shaking his head. "Wh-whoa, hey, we're really not FBI agents."

"See, they aren't FBI agents," The Doctor said.

"Clearly," came a voice from the flat above.

Dean looked up. "Who is—?"

"I'm Sam Winchester," Sam said. "And this is my brother Dean."

Watson stuck out his hand, shaking Sam's firmly and giving him a small smile. "Doctor John Watson, at your service. And, um…" He gestured upwards. "Don't mind Sherlock, he's in one of his moods."

The Doctor pulled a face. "Another?"

Watson shrugged. "I don't know, I really don't. The whole time you've been gone he's just been playing that damn violin, didn't get a wink of sleep last night, and…" He looked at Sam and sighed. "I'm sorry, you're probably… just… here…" He started up the fire escape. "Here, we're keeping it on the roof."

"Keeping what on the roof?" Sam asked.

The Doctor grinned. "Oh, you're gonna love this."

* * *

><p>The Doctor skipped over to the far end of the roof, grabbed hold of the blue tarp and gave it a tug. It went fluttering as the Doctor crumpled it into a ball and tossed it off to one side. "Ta-da!"<p>

The Winchesters stared. "Wh…" Sam turned his head to the side. "Um, what is it?"

"A spaceship," John responded.

Dean sighed. "Well. Obviously. Just… why are we bringing the lone blue man group member to the spaceship? We're just letting him fly away?"

"Oh, goodness no," the Doctor said. "I said we were bringing him to justice, remember?" He smiled, hands on his hips as he looked over the ship. "This? This is a Justicarn."

"Justicarn?" Sam echoed.

"Yes!" The Doctor said. "Justicarn! Portable prison, typical of the Talosarian Region, millions of inmates, four entrances, all of them onboard just such Justicarns."

"It's tiny," Dean said. "It's not even the size of a hippie van, how is _that_ a prison?"

"Have you seen his police box?" John asked, smirking.

"Yeah."

"Basically the same thing." At the look Sam and Dean were giving him, he shrugged. "I've… already been through this once before, it… yeah."

"So it's another TARDIS?" Dean asked.

The Doctor clicked his tongue. "Not the same thing. Same idea, yes, but different implementation. You see, the TARDIS is an individual dimension, a nonplace in space-and-time, whereas the doorway in the Justicarn is a set door to a set place in a set time; no variation, no variables, just…" He turned to see the three humans and one alien all staring at him with rather vacant expressions. He cleared his throat. "Right. Yes. Justicarns."

He walked a circle around the small metal shuttle. "So, inside this ship is a door. A door to a prison millions of billions of light years from here. The prison holds all the prisoners of the National Talosarian Security Task Force, the NTSTF, nice acronym, very 'clicky.' Anyway, the Talosarian Region is plagued with gangs and mobs and the like, so they build a megaprison. The trouble is, you build a megaprison, you're just painting a bigger target on your back, telling people exactly where to come to bust out your biggest drug lord, or rackets fixer, so on and so on. So instead, you build these doorways."

The Doctor set a hand on the back end of the spaceship. "Four doorways. On four ships. Always on the move. Only landing to refuel, change the guard, and/or to take on new prisoners. Brilliant system. These Justicarns are untrackable, untraceable, and the prison itself is staffed with the best of the best of the best of the best. There's only one problem." The Doctor turned to face the others. "They weren't expecting a break-in… from the inside."

John gestured to Sam. "Here, let me just drop him back off inside." He took the Talosarion from the American man, and started dragging him to the inside of the ship.

Sam watched John a moment, then turned to the Doctor. "Wait, if they broke out, how is putting them back in going to help?"

"Security is on the doorway now, twenty-four hour patrol—well, seventy-nine hour patrol, full day span for Talosarian. We escort them back in, the prison guards take care of the rest, but it's just a temporary problem. The gate, _this_ gate isn't secure until we get back the other pieces of the dimensional transponder and—"

Dean held up a hand. "Hold up, hold up… all this? All these problems, aliens, time-travel, people dying… all this is just some intergalactic prison break?"

"Not just a prison break, _the_ prison break," the Doctor said, eyes lighting up. "Prison break of the century. Unbreakable, totally secure locale, three major crime lords, gone. Sure there are a few… stragglers and missing bits, like the one we just picked up, but… still." The Doctor sighed, cocking his head. "Three of the most dangerous people in the universe… stuck _here_."

"Here?" Sam echoed as John walked out of the ship and grabbed the tarp off of the ground. "_Where_ here?"

"Where _not_?" the Doctor said with a shrug. "Shuttle crashes _here_, we round up one of the minor bits, another of their boys ends up in your backyard, who knows where the next one will be. That's the trouble… they could be anywhere—"

"Or they could be right here in London."

The Wincesters turned to see a man walking toward them, dark curls framing a thin, angular face and blue eyes. His lips were thin and his expression unreadable, but his eyes, hauntingly pale, were fixed on the two men. They flickered over each of the brothers, eyes never resting until they returned back to Dean's. He stuck out his hand. "Rough flight?"

"What?"

The man's expression remained unchanged. "Nothing."

Dean's eyes narrowed and he glanced down at Sherlock's hand before taking it and shaking it. He pointed at him with his free hand, smirking. "You must be the one with the moods."

The man's mouth twitched into something of a toothless sneer, and he turned to Sam, held out his hand again. "Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective."

The taller brother took his hand. "Sam. Winchester, um…" Sam gestured. "This is my brother Dean."

"Older brother, yes?" Sherlock asked, or rather stated.

Dean's eyes narrowed. "Yeah." He looked at the Doctor. "I take it you all know each other?"

The Doctor nodded, rocking back and forth on his heels. "Oh yeah, good mates, we three. Well, good mates as of two days ago. Well, not mates so much as—"

"Colleagues," Sherlock said, still not having moved.

"_Exactly_," the Doctor said. "Colleagues. Bumped into each other much the same way. They were tracking one of the inmates, same as you two, we ran into each other aaaaand… he got me out of something of a scrape—"

"Scrape, yes," Sherlock said, then turned and walked toward the Doctor. "That's what I was going to text you. The scraping. Plasma scorching all over the floors, dust disturbed on the outside windows, crates moved around, some broken open. Went back this morning around three and nothing. Everything cleaned up, scrubbed down. They're on the move, but they're still looking for it."

Dean was shaking his head. "I'm sorry, did I miss something?"

Sherlock held up a hand at Dean, eyes still on the Doctor. "Stop talking. They're here. The others, the scavengers, I've got notes on them on the laptop—"

"—he means I took notes on the laptop while he talked," John murmured.

"—but they are not important. The three, the big three, they are still here. _Here_. In _London_. And they are planning something. Something awful and _big_."

"What?" the Doctor asked.

Sherlock let out a long sigh. "That… would seem to be the question."

Sam cleared his throat. "Excuse me, but… um… what's going on?"

"Weren't you listening?" Sherlock asked. "Prison break, big three get out, and now they're planning something. And if we don't get to work on this and fast… we're going to lose them."

"Sounds like you guys might need a hand," Sam said with a shrug.

John smiled a little, surprised. "You offering?"

"Yeah," Sam said with a shrug. "I mean, it's not just a… British problem, it's a human problem, right?"

"_Buuut_ as much as we'd love to help out," Dean said, throwing an arm around Sam's shoulders. "We do have our own set of troubles back home. Y'know, just because you stop one apocalypse, doesn't mean you saved the world, right? So if it's not going to be any trouble, we'll just take our one-way ticket home. In the blue box. _Now_."

The Doctor's mouth went small. "You sure?" he asked, rocking back on his heels. "I mean… mystery, mayhem, the end of the world… and you don't want in?"

"We've got our own problems right now, thanks," Dean said, as Sam pulled him back.

Sam lowered his voice, turned his back on the others. "Dean… Dean, wait and let's just… think about this a second."

"Think about what?" Dean hissed. "Sam, this is _none_ of our business, okay? Not our problem—"

"Why, because they didn't land in the backyard of some farmer in Montana? _Come on, Dean_."

"We've got our own problems," Dean growled. "Tracking Crowley, remember? The bastard that's apparently not dead? End of the world, plan to open purgatory, become the new Pit Boss, _remember_? _That's _what we need to be focusing on."

Sam ran a hand over his face with a sigh. "Okay… okay, look, so…" He shrugged. "We have no leads right now, right? Bobby's working that—"

"Yeah, so?"

"So?" Sam echoed. "Dean, this is a _job_. What do we do while Bobby works at finding us leads?"

Dean sighed. "We do jobs—"

"We do jobs," Sam repeated. "So… my suggestion? Until we hear from Bobby… we work this job. We need to get home in a flash? The Doctor takes us home, right?"

Dean looked a little green at the thought. He gave Sam a sidelong look. "You sure we can trust these guys?"

Sam shrugged. "So far, no reason not to.

Dean stared at him a long moment before beginning to rub his eyes with the heel of his hand. "Fine. _Fine_, we'll stick around. But the second Bobby calls us—"

"We're in!" Sam exclaimed, turning to the others.

John gave a little shout, smiling as the Doctor clapped his hands, bouncing into the air and dancing in a circle before running over to the two, grabbing each of the brother's faces in turn. "The Winchester Brothers, _brilliant_. Absolutely brilliant!" He spun around. "Look at us! The Winchester Brothers, Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, and the Doctor. No." He stopped frozen. "No, that's not catchy, we need something catchy."

"You're giving us a team name?" Dean asked. "Are you serious?"

"Well, Wincholmstontor doesn't exactly roll off one's tongue, now does it?" the Doctor asked. "No. No, rather sounds like a badly stated fanship." He waved both hands at the group. "Think, what's a good name?"

"Well, what about something we all have in common?" John said. "I mean, we're all detectives… in a sense, I mean. After a sort."

"I'd hardly call them detectives," Sherlock murmured, examining the ground.

Dean stepped forward. "Excuse me?"

"No, he's right," the Doctor said, pointing at Sherlock. "Detective is a little too… exclusive. Not exactly what most of us do, more like what _Sherlock_ does—"

"Thank you," Sherlock muttered.

"No, we're a bit bigger than that," the Doctor continued as if he hadn't heard. "Broader talents, broader abilities, ways of getting things done. There's got to be something. Something we all have in common."

"None of us particularly belong together," Sherlock said.

John sighed. "Sherlock."

"What?" Sherlock asked, frowning. "We're not exactly the usual suspects, are we?"

Sam's head turned to the side. "So… we're the unusual suspects."

There was a moment of silence as all eyes turned on him.

John repeated it slowly. "The Unusual Suspects." A slow smile spread over his face as he nodded.

Sherlock's mouth twitched. "Not a bad name. Not bad at all."

"The Unusual Suspects it is," the Doctor said, smiling at Sam. He clapped a hand on his shoulder. "Welcome to the club, Winchesters."

"Just until something comes up," Dean said, holding up a finger.

"Right, right, sure," the Doctor said, nodded. "Naturally."

"Well, if they are going to be a part of this unit," Sherlock said, hands in his pockets and walking quickly toward the door to the flat, "which I might argue is becoming far too large to work efficiently, then it would be best to brief him on the case so far. Or cases, rather, as we have at least three other inmates beyond the kingpins who've gone missing."

The Doctor frowned. "Two."

"Three," Sherlock repeated.

The Doctor shook his head. "No, two—"

"_Three_," Sherlock snapped, turning sharply to face the others. "It's obvious, just look at it."

They all glanced back at the ship, now re-covered with the tarp. John was the first to speak, brow furrowed with confusion. "Sorry, look at what?"

Sherlock let out a long sigh. "God, it's like I'm the only one here with a working brain. I've got the samples downstairs in on the table. There was a set of markings that matches the ones we saw on the side of the…" His voiced faded away as he swept down the stairs to the flat.

Dean's jaw worked a moment. "Is it just me, or is that guy a massive dick?"

The Doctor sighed. "He's brilliant is what he is… Not particularly nice, and not particularly patient, but… he's brilliant."

John gave the two brother's a small smile. "It gets better. Not much, but… you'll start to grow on him." He sighed, looking at the door to the flat. "It doesn't mean he'll get any nicer, mind you, but… you'll grow on him."

"Yeah, looking forward to that," Dean grumbled, and started down to the room.

Sam sighed, watching his brother disappear into the flat below. He looked at John and the Doctor, gave them a tired smile. "You'll grow on Dean, too. And… he might actually get nicer."

The Doctor smiled. "Good to have you along, Sam Winchester."

"Good to be along," Sam said with a grin.

John held open the door, nodded at the stairs. "Come on. I'll ask Mrs. Hudson to put a pot on and round up some biscuits."

* * *

><p>A set of metal pliers clanged into a bowl of water. Red curled off of the metal in arcs, staining the liquid with blood. Latex gloves snapped as they were pulled from a pair of hands and set next to the bowl. Next to the bowl, and next to the gloves, a cellphone was ringing.<p>

The cellphone was answered. "This had better be bloody important. I'm in the middle of something." A pause. "Found what?" Hands gripped the tray closest to him. "Found _what?"_

He turned, snatching up a short blade from the tray and holding it up to the light. "Well, why are you calling me if you don't… know… what the _hell_ it is you've found?" The blade caught the florescent glow, reflected it across medical-white walls. After a moment, the man speaking dropped it to his side. "New? New how? … Really? Well… London's a little far for this operation to go tracking down something that may or may not be what we're looking for… You sure? You are absolutely certain? Because if you're not… so help me, I will—"

A pause. "Really? You have it, then? …Well then yes, absolutely! Why are we even discussing this? Send somebody down there right—no… no, you know what? Don't send anyone. … no, no, I said, _don't send anyone! Are you bloody deaf?"_ He sighed. "No, no, I'll pick it up myself. I'll take it there myself. Send some of the boys on ahead, see if they can't get their hands on one of these… whatever they are. As for harvesting, well… I'll take care of that myself. Oh, and tell them if any of them fucks this up in any way, I won't just have their heads. I will end them. I will burn them. And then I'll fix them up and do it again, got it?"

There was a pause. The man smirked. "Glad to hear it." He turned the blade over in his hand. "No. No, that will be all for now. I'll be round in…" He checked his watch. "Twenty minutes. Have it ready?"

The man snapped the cellphone shut, began gnawing on the inside of his cheek. He pocketed the cell and gestured at the female strapped down to the medical table with the knife, smiling. "Lucky, lucky you, Missy," he cooed. "You get to go back to your cell and think about what we've talked about here today."

The woman shook her head. "Please…" Her voice was thin and raspy, lips chapped and caked in blood. "Please, I don't know where it is…"

He smirked. "Better change your tune by the time I get back, sugarcake… or we'll have to take it from the top again. And…" He pressed the knife against the skin of her collarbone, pressed until red seeped up from the mark. The woman began to scream as he continued, his voice as soft and level as ever. "If you don't manage to remember how to get into Purgatory by the time I'm back… I won't be nearly so gentle."

Crowley stabbed the knife into the woman's thigh with a little sigh. "Boys, grab my coat. Daddy's going on a business trip."

They were there almost on his word; demons unstrapping the woman and dragging her off, two others to clear the equipment, and one handing him his coat. "You need anything else, boss?"

"Have someone bring a car around, the Bentley, please…"

"Where you going? Vacation?"

Crowley sighed. "No time for Holidays in my line of work. No, this is a business trip."

"Where to, sir?"

Crowley smiled, shrugging on his coat. "England."

— _**End of Episode One**_


	2. Chapter 2

"If I'd known he was to have friends over, I might have had something ready—"

"This is more than enough, Mrs. Hudson, really," John said, smiling at her as she carried in a silver tray, complete with porcelain teapot, cups, and biscuits all around. John quickly cleared a spot on the table just in time for her to set it down.

Dean squinted at the pot then smiled at Mrs. Hudson. "Sorry, do you have any coffee, or—"

"I'm their landlady, dearie, not their housekeeper," she said, patting his shoulder, "but I'll put a pot on. Just this once."

"No no no, you don't have to," Sam said. "Tea is just fine, we—"

"Just this once," Mrs. Hudson repeated, already out of the room.

Dean turned to Sam, smiling. At the look Sam was giving him, the smile disappeared and he cleared his throat. He picked up one of the small shortbread biscuits and turned it between his fingers. "Dude, I thought you asked her for crackers."

John had been setting out the saucers and cups when he looked up. "Um, biscuits. Asked for biscuits."

Dean twirled the shortbread between his fingers. "These are cookies."

John made a face. "Um… in America, yeah, but… here we call them biscuits."

"Why would anyone in their right mind call a cookie a biscuit?"

John shrugged. "Why would anyone in their right mind call a biscuit a cookie?" When Dean opened his mouth to respond, John held up a finger. "Remember, we came first."

Dean blinked, looked at the biscuit, then at his younger brother. Sam simply grinned at him and shrugged. "Touché."

Dean bit into the shortbread cookie. "England is _so weird_," he muttered, walking toward the couch.

John gave a little sigh. "Do you have a preference for your tea, or—"

"Two sugars, a little milk."

John looked up at Sam. His expression was both surprise and confusion.

Sam cleared his throat. "I, uh… dated a girl at school who was a big fan of all things British. No, seriously, her room was basically covered in the Union Jack." He nodded to himself. "Kind of crazy."

John chuckled. "Sounds like it. Here you are. Milk and two sugars."

"Thanks," Sam said, grabbing a couple of biscuits and starting for the couch. Dean was already lounging, feet up on the table, and watching as Sherlock paced the room, picking up different items in baggies and showing them each to the Doctor in turn.

"…but there was a distinct lack of these markings on the console itself, which suggests that the ship was dismantled—"

"After landing," the Doctor finished.

Sherlock nodded. "Which implies that these beings hijacked the ship, not only with the intention of breaking out, but also of bringing themselves here. _Specifically_. Now—"

Dean held up his hand. "Hey, sorry, back up. You're saying the aliens _wanted_ to land here?"

"Obviously," Sherlock said.

Dean glanced around the room. "Look, I might be new at the whole real-aliens-who-aren't-just-fairies thing, but if I were an alien living in a high-tech world, Earth's the last place I'd want to go—"

"Wrong!" the Doctor chimed, perching himself on the arm of the comfy, looking chair. "Earth is the perfect place to go. Low-tech, still under the protection of the Shadow-Proclamation. You hide here, it's hard for people to come searching for you. They can't just phone up the Prime Minister and say, "we think we misplaced a couple of our most dangerous men down there, might we come take a look? Oh, and when's a good time to do lunch?" No, you get yourself lost here. Especially a big city like London? You just might get away."

"But they're not going to want to stay here, right?" Sam asked. "I mean, this has got to be a temporary solution."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed and he pointed at Sam. "You. You're not quite as thick your elder brother—"

"Hey!"

"You might actually have a future here."

"Hey! Pointy-face!" Dean snapped. "I'm not thick!"

"Good for you," Sherlock said, not looking at him. "Now, shush. Grownups are talking."

Sherlock was continuing before Dean could even respond. "So, what do we know so far? We know they don't want to make London a permanent living solution, now while we're waiting on the log of whom it is that has actually escaped, let's consider what we do know. There are three major crime lords loose. They all just happen to crash here? That rings of planning, not of coincidence. They land here, disappear into thin air, and what? Wait for pick-up? No, these are brilliant beings, beings that know how important it is to disappear into the crowd, know how to work a market and forge just about anything to get ahead, no. They aren't going to leave their destiny to a chance rescue. They're here for something."

"For what?" John asked.

For a long moment, all eyes were on Sherlock and the room was silent. For a long moment, no one breathed.

Sherlock rubbed a hand over his mouth and shook his head. "I don't know."

Dean snorted, settling back on the couch. "And here I thought I was going to be impressed."

"You'd prefer magic tricks?" Sherlock asked. "Something a little flashier? Simpler to process?"

"I'd prefer _results_," Dean said flatly. "You call yourself a detective, and really all you've done is guess that they wanted to come here."

Sherlock sighed. "Wasn't a guess."

"Come again?" Dean said.

"It wasn't a guess," Sherlock said, voice gone tight and eyes narrow. "It's _obvious_. Given the data the Doctor had given me on the life forms from the ship, they'd been dead a good forty-eight of our hours before the ship had landed which means they were not alive to crash the ship. This means the inmates crashed it. It was made to look like an accidental crash due to the fuel being empty, but there were remnants of the fuel on the outside of the receptacle, suggesting the fuel was removed _after_ the ship had been landed.

"The ship landed near a warehouse where the inmates would have taken cover. The boxes were searched through, means that they were looking for something. Something they expected to be there that _wasn't_. There were plasma burns on the walls, weapon discharges. We're meant to believe there was a struggle, a fight, but the shots were too high. Nothing that large was on the ship, which means the angle that they fired at was clearly intended to not hit the target. It was to look like a falling out. Now, three major crime lords, likely all from various gangs in the system. They should be fighting, but the markings left by the footprints suggest that three of them left together, the others scattered. Three crime lords all working together? Far more likely that a handful of inmates cracking this plan, happening to get lucky, and having the resources to have something prepared for them here. No, this is a big game with big players." Sherlock breathed for what seemed like the first time since he'd begun speaking. "Just need to figure out the end game," he finished.

Almost in unison, John and Sam both murmured, "Brilliant," and "Wow."

"Anyone could bend over and pull that sort of conjecture out of their ass," Dean said, picking a biscuit off of Sam's plate. "It's just guess work."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "It's _science_."

"It's _bullshit_," Dean said.

Sherlock flopped down into the armchair, pulling the Union Jack pillow onto his lap and fiddling with it. "How long has your father been dead?"

Dean's entire body went tense. "_Excuse me?_"

Sherlock gestured. "Your watch. It's one of several that you have, as the tan line is not consistent, but you didn't buy them. Young men buy young man's watches; digital, fancy, unnecessary. This watch feels military-inspired. Has a compass, multiple times, more information than a man with a mobile needs.

"Now you, you're not military. You lack the disciplined stature and the walk. You flop onto the sofa when you take a seat; it's not the bearing of a military man. Your hair however, neatly cropped, well-tended; that's military. That's inspired by another, someone you look up to, someone who raised you. You're the eldest in your family, so not a brother. Could be uncle, but judging by your clothes, you're always on the move, ready to go at the drop of a hat, so I'd say no extended family. At least none that you hold in this level of regard so it must be a family member. Could have been your mother, but judging by your hair, it was your father.

"So father's a military man, but more than that. Taught you everything you know about everything you know. You can see it in the way you dress, the way you shave. Even in the way you speak; you don't have your father's discipline, but you don't waste time or words. You say what you mean in as few words as possible. He's inspired everything you are, which means he gave you the watches.

"But not _gave_, no. That watch you're wearing right now is older than you are. The band is newer. Two years, three, which means it was recently replaced. Man his age with his military record, US Marine judging by the symbol there by the tiny date marker, he would replace it. He doesn't want to risk a new band not living up to the old band. And with quartz that scratched up, better to get a new one.

"But you, you wear it for sentimental value. You replaced the wrist band; you wear it because it reminds you of your father, not because it is a tool. If your father was still alive, saw the sentimentality for his old watch, he'd mock you for it. That or buy you a new watch, but considering you aren't wearing a new watch, you fixed the band after his death, wear it to remind you of him, so I ask again…" Sherlock leaned forward. "When did your father die?"

Sam let out a long breath, chuckled. "Wow."

"Wow?" Dean echoed, glaring at Sam. "You think he really got all that from my watch?"

Sam shrugged. "Sounds like it."

Sherlock stared at Dean. "It was all simple deduction."

"Yeah?" Dean snapped, standing. "Well how's this for simple deduction? I deduce that you're a douche bag." He looked around the room a moment. "I need some air." He stormed off slamming door to the stairs shut, stomping all the way up to the roof and slamming the second door shut as well.

John gave a little sigh, looking at Sherlock. "Must you do that?"

"Do what?" Sherlock asked.

"It's not just him," Sam assured John. "Dean's a little… sensitive about this sort of thing. He doesn't like or trust strangers easily, so to have someone just…"

"Suddenly be privy to every detail of his relationship to his father?" the Doctor murmured, leaning against the mantle.

Sam nodded. "Yeah. It kind of freaks him out."

"Well then," Sherlock said, standing. "He has a choice. He can either get over it and work with us to find out what's going on, or he can mope in the TARDIS."

"Cooperation goes two ways, Sherlock Holmes," the Doctor said. "If you want him to work with this team—"

"And who said I did?" Sherlock asked.

"True," the Doctor sighed, "however… _I _think these two boys would be a good addition to the team. Five heads are better than one, especially considering what we're up against."

"I'm not apologizing."

"Not asking you to," the Doctor said. "Just asking you to try and get along."

"I'm trying."

"Try a little harder?"

Sherlock let out a long breath, glancing at the Doctor. He rolled his eyes. "I'll be… civil. That's all I can promise."

The Doctor smiled. "Thank you." He looked at Sam. "Do you want me to do something about…?"

Sam shook his head. "No. No, he'll be back down. Just give him a few minutes. He knows when he's beaten."

"Must be a daily event," Sherlock muttered. He rubbed his arm as John leaned over and slapped his elbow.

"Civil," he said.

Sherlock sighed. "_Civil."_

John smirked at Sherlock, watched him cross the room and pick up a stack of papers the Doctor had printed up for them. He seemed to become aware of Sam watching him, smiling at the little exchange that wasn't happening between the two. John rubbed his hands together. "Right. Let me show you that thing we're trying to follow up on tonight…" He set down his cup and saucer and went digging through piles of books, plastic baggies with evidence, and loose sheets of paper. "Here, so this is one of the smaller cases," he said, holding out a page to Sam. "We think that this one is squatting in a building on the lower east side of…"

221 B Baker Street turned into a hive of activity, all four looking through papers, comparing information and cross-referencing data with the Doctor. They'd been working for some time when there was a knock on the doorframe.

Dean cleared his throat. In the same moment, everyone turned to stare at him. He winced from the sudden wave of attention and held up both hands. "Whoa, just…" He licked his lips, searching for the words he'd had memorized on the roof that were now suddenly gone. He forced his eyes to Sherlock's, hands still up. "Look… that was impressive, okay? I get it. You're pretty frickin' smart. Sammy's pretty frickin' smart, and… I know if I don't listen to him… it usually means my ass, so…" He sighed. "I might not like you too much, but… I know when it's in my best interests to work with someone, so… here I am."

John looked at Sherlock, trying to read that expression, cut off the smartass remark before it came. What happened instead was surprising. Sherlock simply shifted, handed Dean a sheet of paper. "Welcome back, Dean Winchester."

Dean didn't say anything either. He took the page and smiled, settled in next to his brother. "So, explain the situation to me, Sammy."

And again, 221 B Baker Street was a hive of activity. After all… the game was on.

* * *

><p>Crowley parked the Bentley across the street from a very nice little Italian place under a bridge where the Green Line rumbled overhead and one street became two streets. To be perfectly honest, Chicago was too clean for his tastes. He preferred New York, especially when it came to business transactions. But he wasn't here on the usual crossroads business. No this business was much bigger.<p>

The door had a little bell that chimed when he came in. All the lights were turned off save one coming from the kitchen in the back. He made his way around the tables with their upturned chairs and pushed through the swinging double doors into the kitchen. Past the kitchen, there was a beaded curtain, swinging neon colored beads and the smell of unprocessed tobacco being burnt. He took two steps into the room, looking over the three humans lounging on faded, grimy pillows and smoking from a hookah. They looked back at him; two women of less than trustworthy companionship, and one man who seemed more interested in sleeping that in the two women.

"You came."

Crowley looked up. A man stood in the stairway on the far side of the wall. His eyes were red and swollen; his face, pasty and gray.

Crowley smirked. "Course I did."

The man nodded, rubbing his hands together hard enough to take the skin off them. "G-good, good. I-It's upstairs."

Crowley followed the man who disappeared into the darkness of the apartment above. He followed him to the third door on the left, into a room with a single, tiny lamp on a bedside table and a bed that was on the floor. The man opened the drawer, pulling out a slender object wrapped in fabric and holding his arm out to Crowley.

Crowley's eyes flicked up to the man's then back at the object. He took it, turned it over in his hand. "This it, then?"

The man nodded.

"You're _sure_?"

Another nod. "Absolutely, Sir."

"How did you come by it?" He began unwrapping it. "Last I heard, it was in the possession of a friend of a friend's. Not one of your lot, mind you. Big boy upstairs. Small time player dealing out specialty items like drugs."

The man shook his head. "Friend of a friend of a friend. L-look, I don't know the details."

Crowley pushed back the last of the fabric. The metal was old; tarnished. It had been hammered out ages ago yet was still sharp to the touch. Even through his leather driving gloves, Crowley could feel the metal vibrating, almost purring at his touch. He smirked. "I suppose you'll want a little sweetness in exchange for it? What, an extra three years? Four?"

The man's arms were folded around his waist and he was shaking his head. "N-no. I mean, y-yeah, whatever, just…" He swallowed. "I-I want it gone, okay? I didn't…" He was still shaking his head. "Just get it out of here."

"Of course," Crowley said, taking care to wrap the shard of metal back up. "Of course. Anything for a… business associate." He slid the wrapping and all into the inner pocket of his jack, smiling. "Next time, maybe we don't go playing with fire, mm?"

The man said nothing. He slumped down to his bed as Crowley turned to leave. He stopped in the doorway, turned back to face him. "Oh, and one more thing… this thing doesn't work, I aim to collect immediately, savvy?" And with that, Crowley shut the door behind him.

The junkies and prostitutes didn't seem to notice him leave. Crowley wasn't sure they'd even notice him arrive. It didn't matter. What _did_ matter was that the plan was falling into place. He sat down in the Bentley, turned up Freddie Mercury and smiled.

* * *

><p>Dean had spent most of the afternoon lounging on the couch. He had never been much a mind for the whole planning and calculating crowd, but the boredom was starting to get to him. John offered him a stupid toy that was a cross between a rubix cube and a game of Sudoku ("Uh, no thanks, Johnny-Boy. Maybe I'll pick this up <em>after<em> I decide to slit my wrists."), and after flipping through the paper only to find it was _three weeks old_, he groaned and made grabby hands at the Macbook Sam was typing away on.

Sam made a face at him. "Dude, I'm working."

"Booooored."

"Yeah. Working."

"BOOOOOOORRRED."

"It's also not mine," Sam snerked, turning in the chair so his back was facing Dean.

Dean smashed the Union Jack pillow over his face and groaned into it.

John stared at Dean a moment, then looked at Sam. "Right. Is he always this bad?"

Sam gave him a wry look. "Oh, you think this is bad? Imagine _driving_ with him. Hours on end with nothing but open plains and cheap motels."

John looked a little ill. "God no."

Sam nodded fervently. "Oh yeah."

After a while, Mrs. Hudson brought up a platter of sandwiches and a pitcher of lemonade. They decided to break for lunch. Everyone save Sherlock who was sitting in the middle of the floor, hands pressed together under his chin. Every now and again, his lips would move or his brow would crease, but then back to the same distant expression.

Dean indicated Sherlock with a gesture of his sandwich. "That… normal for him?"

The Doctor and John both nodded.

Dean stared at them, then back at Sherlock. "Seriously? Is he like… checked out at the moment? I mean, can he hear us, or—?"

"He's basically there," John sighed, filling a glass with lemonade and handing it to the Doctor. "If you shake him, he'll come out of it. For the most part, he seems to just be ignoring the outside world. I mean, he will get irritated and… sometimes lash out if you make much of a racket, but..."

"So, what?" Sam asked. "The lights are on, and he's just… mostly home."

"Exactly. He's just gone to his…" John seemed to catch himself midstream and mumbled the last bit.

Dean made a face and leaned forward, smirking. "I'm sorry, he's gone _where_?"

John sighed as he pinched the bridge of his nose. "His… _Mind Palace_," he muttered. "He calls it his Mind Palace."

Dean was practically glowing. "You gotta be kidding me. Mind Palace?"

John shrugged, taking a half sandwich and his glass of lemonade to his spot across the cluttered room. "Couldn't make these things up if I tried."

Dean looked from John, to Sherlock, to the Doctor who was smiling around a mouthful of sandwich. "Brilliant, innet?"

"More like completely _whack_," Dean said, rolling his eyes. He finished his sandwich in two bites, downed the glass of lemonade, and before Sam had realized what was going on, Dean had taken both Sam's seat and John's computer.

Sam spun around. "Hey!"

"Calm your tits, princess," Dean said, kicking up his feet. "Just checking the news."

"There's a paper right there," Sam said, pointing.

"No, no, that's the old one," John said. "The new one is…" He looked around the room, picked up the magazines in a pile next to him, and glanced over a cardboard office box on the floor. He cleared his throat. "Right, well… there's a current one somewhere."

"Yeah, well," Dean said. "Considering I'm not Indiana Jones, I'm not going to go treasure hunting for it."

Sam gave Dean the aptly-named bitchface.

Dean held up his hand. "Five minutes, that's all I'm asking for."

Sam continued with the look, mouth drawn into a tight line as he said, "I so much as see a trace of busty Asian beauties, I will dropkick you out of this building."

"Yeah, sure, good luck with that." Dean looked up. "Hey, Johnny-Boy—?"

"Seconding the 'no' on the Busty Asian Beauties," John said, sipping his lemonade.

"Wh—no!" Dean snapped. "I'm trying to find a local news paper!"

John blinked. "Oh. Right, okay, it's bookmarked. Local Guardian, I think?"

"Got it," Dean said.

The Doctor suddenly sprung to his feet. "Right," he said, rubbing his hands together. "I am going to go check on our Talosarian friends and see if they have those dossiers on our missing prisoners yet."

"You think they'll help us track them?" Sam asked.

The Doctor shrugged. "It'll at least narrow things down a bit. _Well_, hopefully more than a bit. See, there's not just Talosarian's imprisoned on the Justicarn. They're almost a mercenary prison. Governments pay them enough money, they'll hold onto whomever they give them." The Doctor sighed. "Looks like this time they bit off more than they can chew…" He came back to himself, flashing them all a bright smile. "Right! Back in a flash!"

The door to the roof clattered shut behind the Doctor, and the room went quiet again.

Sam finished two sandwiches and a glass of lemonade before kicking back and glaring at Dean. It was a while before Dean became aware of his brother staring. When he finally noticed, he gave a belabored sigh and looked up. "_What?"_

"It's been ten minutes," Sam said.

"Yeah, and I'm still browsing. Keep your pants on."

"What exactly are you looking for?" John asked.

Dean shrugged. "Just browsing the papers like I would back home."

"You're looking for a job," Sam said more than asked.

Dean nodded. "M'looking for a job."

"We're already on a job."

"No, you all are doing the busy work part and I'm sitting here bored as hell. So I could, A) wait for you all to make a break-through, or B)…" He turned the computer toward Sam. "Look into the disappearance of this man and…" He clicked another window. "The problem with the lights in the same area of London."

Sam raised an eyebrow. "And… you're going to just show up and tell them… what?"

Dean shrugged. "I've got badges."

"You've got _American_ badges," Sam said flatly. "FBI doesn't exactly have the same pull here as they do back home."

Dean smirked. "I can talk British."

John's brow furrowed as he looked between the two brothers.

Sam shook his head. "Dean. No."

Dean snorted. "What? Can so, it's cake! Watch, just…" He cleared his throat. "Oy, Guhvnah, cuppuh tay and orll 'at. I needs tuh go to vuh loo."

John and Sam both stared.

Dean stared back. "What?"

John shook his head, slowly at first, then firmly. "No. N-no, just—"

"What? What was wrong with it?"

"Everything," Sam said.

"Bullshit! I nailed it!"

"You're done."

"Wh—_oh, come on!_" He gestured at the computer screen. "Don't tell me this isn't worth looking into."

John shrugged. "It's probably just faulty power lines. Or maybe they're just old—"

"In a newly opened apartment complex, come on," Dean groaned. "Light problems, sudden power surges, missing woman, aliens on the loose and you think it's not worth looking int—?"

Sherlock's eyes suddenly opened. "Say that again."

Dean blinked, startled by the until-that-moment-comatose man's sudden reaction. "Wh-what?"

"Say it again," Sherlock snapped. "Everything you just said, say it again, say it exactly as you _just_ said it."

Dean looked at Sam, then John, then back at Sherlock. "Um… Light problems, sudden power surges, missing woman, aliens on the loose and—"

Sherlock rose in one fluid movement from cross-legged on the floor to standing. He grabbed his coat off the back of John's chair. "Get the Doctor."

John blinked at him. "Wh… Sherlock, what—?"

"Get the Doctor, we need to go," Sherlock repeated, shrugging on his coat.

Dean stared at him. "What did I say? Wh-what did I say that—?"

"Don't you understand? It explains _everything_!" Sherlock shouted, smiling with too many teeth showing. There was a manic light in his eyes. "Fetch the Doctor, tell him to warm up his motor. The chase is on!"

And with that, Sherlock was racing down the stairs, giving Mrs. Hudson a peck on the cheek, and out the door.

John sighed, standing and shrugging on his jacket. "You heard him. Let's be off."

Dean was scowling. "Uh, not really, no. I just saw him jump up, turn in circles, then run away. Did I miss something?"

"When you're around Sherlock, you're always missing something," John said, tossing Dean's leather jacket to him. "I'll fetch the Doctor. You two go make sure he doesn't go and try to get into the Doctor's box and take off somewhere."

Sam frowned. "You really think he could fly that thing?"

John chuckled. "I really don't think we should take the chance."

"Right." Sam put on his jacket, nodding at Dean. "Come on."

Dean just smiled at him, looking pleasantly satisfied. "Told you I was on to something."

"Yeah, you can gloat later. TARDIS now."

"You owe me a drink."

"_Now."_

* * *

><p>It took some convincing, but on the promise of pie, Dean finally got into the TARDIS with the others. He handled his second trip considerably better than the first but was still a pale shade of green by the time they reached their destination. Before anyone could ask what the plan was, Sherlock was already out the door and around the corner.<p>

John sighed. "Hate it when he does that," he muttered. "Come on."

By the time the others had caught up with him, it was clear the apartment was still under inspection, covered in police tape and surrounded by cars with red and blue lights flashing rapidly.

"Awesome," Dean groaned. "How we getting in there?"

"Afternoon, _Freak_," Sergeant Donavan said, sidestepping to stand in front of Sherlock, who was already reaching for the police tape. She spat out the last word like it was a sickening medical condition rather than just an insult.

Sherlock glanced up at the sky. "So it is," he said, though his tone implied he wasn't listening to a word the woman said. "I'm going to need access to the crime scene upstairs, four of those blue jumpers, a pair of tongs, and—"

"Wait, wait, hold on," Donavan said, holding the police tape down. "Who says you've got clearance?"

Sherlock sighed. "I was _asked_ to be here."

"No you weren't," Donavan responded, eyes narrowing.

"Well, no, I haven't been asked yet, but somewhere in the next ten minutes, a call would have been made, therefore—"

"Who's this lot, then?" Donavan asked as the others walked up.

"You know John," Sherlock said. "The tall man in the suit is a colleague of his, a Doctor, and the two behind him are Americans. FBI."

Donavan's eyebrows went up to her hairline. "_FBI_? What the FBI want with you? In trouble again, are we?"

Sherlock's mouth twitched to a sour grin. "They're here to cross-reference data. They think the cases might be linked to a missing person's filed in Florida—"

"So why'd they contact you and not us?"

"They saw my website—"

"Your website," Donavan said, nodding. "Sure, and they opted for two-hundred types of ash over Scotland Yard?"

Sherlock's jaw went tight. "_Two-hundred and forty-three—_"

"If you're FBI, where are the suits?" Donavan snapped, rounding on the brothers.

Dean sneered. "You've never heard of undercover officers?"

"Just thought the Americans might want to make an impression the first time they show up and announce they're getting their ruddy fingers in all our pies," Donavan snapped.

Dean stepped toward her. "Excuse me—?"

"Look," Sam said, grabbing the back of his brother's jacket. "If this is going to be a problem, we can—"

"Oh, you bet it's going to be a problem," Donavan said. "Let's see some ID, boys."

Sam and Dean sighed, reaching in their pockets and pulling out their badges. Dean was the first to speak, an ironic grin on his face. "So you gonna let us in, or are we going to have to call our supervisor—"

"Sherlock!"

Chief Inspector Lestrade was hurrying down the stairs of the apartment, heading straight toward the group by the police tape. "Was just about to phone you."

"I told Sally you would," Sherlock said, looking at Donavan. "But you know how she gets. Wanted to make pleasant small-talk." He craned his neck. "I take it Anderson's not arrived yet?"

Lestrade looked around. "How did you—?"

"Footprints, none of them his size, thank God." Without missing a beat he ducked under the tape Lestrade had pulled up for him. "These are some associates of mine, a medical colleague of John's, and the two American gentlemen are FBI—"

"Whoa, whoa, hold up," Lestrade said, holding a hand up as John went to duck into the crime scene as well. "Sherlock, I can't just—"

"They're here on a case," John said, looking back at the Winchester brothers as they held up their badges again.

Lestrade was shaking his head. "I don't… we didn't hear anything about any officers—"

"It was a last minute decision," Sam said. "We were in the area, got a tip from a source, and our supervisor told us to get on it."

"Said Sherlock Holmes was the quickest way to get on scene," Dean said. "And quickest way to figure out if this tip is worth our time. So if you don't mind, we do need to take a look at these things before the trail gets cold? Inspector?"

Lestrade sighed. "Look, I get it. I do, it's just… I'm breaking a lot of rules letting Sherlock and Doctor Watson in—"

"Tons of rules," Donavan muttered, pretending to scratch her nose.

"And—"

"Sir, if I may?" Sam asked, pulling out his wallet and handing the man a business card.

Lestrade looked over the card, frowning. He gave the two men a quick glance, and then reached for his mobile.

* * *

><p>Bobby Singer was in the process of heating up a can of Pork and Beans in the kitchen when the phone started ringing. He sighed, setting the pan on the back burner and walking toward the room the ringing was coming from. He shoved aside a tower of books, glancing over the phone labels: Health Department, Police, CDC, Federal Marshall, and finally—the ringing phone—FBI.<p>

He cleared his throat, took a swig of beer for good measure, and picked up the phone. "Willis."

"Uh, yes… Agent Willis—"

"_Director_ Willis," Bobby corrected, sounding irritable. "Who is this?"

"Yes, hello, Ag…. Director Willis, this is, um… Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard."

"And how can I help you today, Inspector?"

"I think I have… two of your boys here. Said you sent them to look into a possible link between a Missing Person's you filed and a murder we just had reported."

"Agents Williams and Young, yes. I just got the tip this morning. Something wrong?"

"Just… um, confirming, Sir, they weren't exactly dressed in standard attire and—"

"Lestrade was it?"

"Yessir."

"This is a serious case. You think our target won't up and book it the second someone spots a couple of suits looking into this?"

There was a sigh. "No, I-I understand, it's just—"

"Let me see if I understand this. You're calling me to get me to repeat everything my boys have already told you and confirm that they are, in fact, Federal Agents of the United States?"

"Well—"

"Is it protocol for Scotland Yard to waste our time like this? While you're here gabbing, my Agents could be halfway to finding this person. Now did you have any real questions for me, or will that be everything today?"

There was a long pause on the other line. "N-no…. no, that will be all, Sir."

"Thank you. And I'd appreciate it if in the future you would only call me when there are actual problems, understood, Inspector Lestrade?"

"Yessir. Understood, Sir. You have a nice day, Sir."

"You as well, Inspector." Bobby hung up the phone, shaking his head and stalking back toward the kitchen. "_Idjit."_

* * *

><p>The apartment complex was cold and barren, smelling strongly of ammonia and rotten eggs. Lestrade was quick to gather up copies of the situation report so far, but loathe to say anything about his conversation with Director Willis. He showed them into the apartment the woman had gone missing from, gave them permission to search so long as they didn't interfere with his investigation. "So… she's been missing for how long?"<p>

Lestrade motioned toward the office down the hall from the apartment. "Landlady said she tried to drop of a package twice, but no response. Tried the woman's cell, tried her phone line here in the apartment, but nothing. Car's still here. No sign of forced entry. No sign of a struggle—"

"Wrong."

Lestrade and Dean looked in the direction of Sherlock's voice. "Sorry?" Lestrade echoed.

"Wrong," Sherlock repeated. "There was a struggle, someone tried to mop of the mess. Did a rather awful job, though."

Lestrade sighed, glancing at Dean. "Right. Just… follow him around. He should get more info in the next five minutes than we've gotten in the last six hours."

"Thank you for your time, Inspector," Sam said.

Lestrade nodded. "Yeah. Yeah, you two agents need anything else, you drop by my office. Sherlock knows the way."

Sam muttered another thanks, watching Lestrade leave the room as Dean walked up to his brother. "Check it," he said, holding up a cellphone.

_The hell you two idjits doing in the UK? Call me. NOW._

Sam shook his head. "No."

Dean shrugged. "It's your turn, buddy."

"Oh, come on. Really?"

"Hey, stop whining and make the call," Dean said, shoving the phone into his brother's hands. Sam groaned and walked into one of the empty rooms, dialing Bobby's number as Dean headed toward the kitchen. John and the Doctor were both watching Sherlock as he flitted from place to place in the kitchen. Dean leaned against the doorframe. "So what have we g—" He stopped midsentence as John put a finger to his lips, shaking his head. Dean frowned. "What? We're not allowed to talk while he—"

"If you don't like how things are done, you can wait in the blue box," Sherlock snapped, picking up a rag from the floor.

Dean scowled at the man, then looked to the Doctor who merely shrugged. Dean rolled his eyes, folding his arms across his chest in something of a pout as Sherlock continued to work. He became aware of Sam behind him and shifted. "How's Bobby?" he whispered.

Sam sighed. "Irritable."

"He mad that we're here?"

"Just mad we didn't tell him." Sam craned his neck to look into the kitchen. "What's he doing?"

"Hell if I know. I just come over here, start talking, and suddenly he's all Mr. Bitch because I'm breaking his kung-fu focus habits. I mean, seriously. The guy's looking at a rag. How much focus does it take to look at a r—"

Sherlock chuckled to himself, pulling off the pair of white latex gloves and tossing them into the garbage. The group went silent, waiting for Sherlock to say something. When he didn't, the Doctor was the first to speak. "You found something."

Sherlock gave a one-shouldered shrug. "Enough." He pointed, walking everyone through the information he'd gathered. "She was sitting at the table eating breakfast when she was grabbed from behind, upsetting her bowl. There were two of them; one tall, at least the size of Samuel, one smaller, perhaps a little larger than John. She put up a fight, upsetting her bowl of cereal, spilling the milk on the floor. One of them dragged her out, likely the tall one, while the other stayed behind to clean up. He was sloppy, did the job in a hurry." Sherlock pointed. "He wiped the prints from the door knobs, but the smudge of milk shows that he did in fact wipe them—"

"Milk?" Sam asked.

"Yes, _obviously_," Sherlock sighed. "From when he cleaned up the milk puddle on the floor. There's traces of it where the larger man stepped in it along the carpet strip just outside the door, but the linoleum has been scrubbed down. Not particularly well, however—there's a small puddle of milk beneath the sink just beyond line of sight. It's dry, but the rag itself is still wet. Not yet sour, so it hasn't been more than twelve hours."

Sam "You just… figured that all out by looking around?"

"Yes," Sherlock said, not looking at Sam as he said it.

"So how did Humpty and Dumpty get in?" Dean asked. "Inspector said there wasn't a forced entry."

"So it must have been someone she knew," John said.

"Or maybe somehow doors are the alien's specialty?" Sam asked.

The Doctor made a face. "Weell—"

"Impossible," Sherlock said. "Neither of the men who broke in here were our target. The so-called woman, however—"

"Hold on, hold on," Dean said. "How could you have possibly known that?"

"Didn't know; _noticed_," Sherlock said, pointing. "The microwave in the corner there, rewired to double as—"

"A communication array," the Doctor said, already turning and sonicking at the microwave.

Dean blinked. "You're saying they're using microwaves as cell phones?"

"A bit less techy than that," the Doctor explained. "Think less along the lines of a mobile and a more along the lines of Morse code. The worst part is its utterly untraceable."

"So the woman is the one we're looking for," Sam said. "One of our escapees."

"So what the hell do the two guys busting in here have to do with it?" Dean asked.

"Must have been a random kidnapping," John murmured. "Maybe they don't realize what they have."

Sherlock pulled a face. "No. _No_, no signs of forced entry? A landlady that doesn't remember a thing from the day her newest tenant went missing. No. This whole affair reeks of planning."

"What do you mean she doesn't remember?" Sam asked.

John nodded toward the entrance to the flat. "Says she must have blacked out at some point. She came to on her kitchen floor."

Sam gave Dean a long look. "You don't think—"

Dean was shaking his head. "No. No way, José. That's not—"

"But the smell, when we came in," Dean said, voice almost dropped to a whisper. "Ammonia and—"

"Bad eggs," John muttered at the same time Sherlock said, "Sulfur."

Dean shut his eyes, groaned. "Son of a bitch."

"Exactly," Sam said.

"Sorry, did the rest of us non-Winchesters miss something?" John asked.

"Sulfur," Sam explained.

John blinked. "Yeah, still not getting it."

"Sulfur, unexplained blackouts… even the power surges. They're all signs of demonic presence."

Sherlock was staring at the brothers, eyes narrow but smile clearly bemused. "Demons?"

"Yeah," Sam said, nodding. "Demons."

Sherlock looked between the two, still smirking. "That's your explanation? Alien life-form is taken away by… _demons_."

The Doctor even looked confused. "Are we being rhetorical, or…?"

"Wh—no, we're not being rhetorical!" Dean snapped. "We're talking about the real deal. Black eyed body-jumpers from Hell. Serious business. _Our_ business."

Sherlock gave the two brothers a smile that was only mouth. His eyes were blank and clearly, the man had checked out of the conversation. "Riiight. Well, when we're ready to start swapping actual theories, I shall be waiting in the TARDIS."

"Sherlock!" John called after the man, but he was already to the hall. John sighed, folding his arms. "When you say… demons, you don't actually mean—?"

Sam cut him off with a wave of his hand. "Look, I know it sounds crazy, okay? But all the evidence lines up."

"Except what the hell would demons want with an alien?" Dean asked.

"You're serious," John murmured. "You're actually serious." He shook his head. "No. No, there's a logical scientific explanation for that, isn't there?" He looked at the Doctor. "There's some sort of… other dimension o-or race from another world? Aliens or something? Right?"

The Doctor was staring at hole into Sam Winchester, brow furrowed and lips pursed.

Sam stared back. "Is there?" he asked. It wasn't a challenge, just a question.

The Doctor straightened with a sigh. "Listen, I've seen a lot of things. Some can be explained, some can't, but I'll tell you something right now… I don't have all the answers."

"Have you ever encountered a Demon?" John asked. "Someone as old as you are must have—"

"I don't know what I encountered," the Doctor said, glancing at John. "I don't. I really, truly don't."

"Doctor," Sam said, voice gone soft. "What did you see?"

The Doctor was silent for a long while. He held Sam's gaze, then stared at the far wall behind the young man. His mouth opened, but no words came out. He puffed his cheeks and let out a sigh. "I saw… something. Maybe it was something, maybe it was nothing. Maybe it was just an anomaly." His gaze went back into focus and he looked at the Winchester boys. "But if you tell me you think you know what we're up against…" He shrugged. "I'll follow your lead."

Dean leaned back, frowning. "Really?"

The Doctor smirked. "Unless you give me a reason not to."

"Well then," Sam sighed. "We'll do our best not to betray that trust."

"Demons," John muttered. "Bloody hell."

"One thing I don't get, though," Sam said, turning to Dean. "What would demons want with an alien?"

"Whatever it is," Dean said, "you can bet your ass it's not good. Come on… we've got work to do."

* * *

><p>"It doesn't work."<p>

Two men looked up from the desk they sat at, low-res static security screens casting a chlorine glow over them. At the sound of the voice, they kicked their feet off the desk and set down their coffee. One of them jumped to his feet. "Sorry, Sir?"

Crowley stared at them a long moment, before exploding. "IT DOESN'T. BLOODY. WORK!"

One of the two security guards ducked as Crowley flung the metal fragment, piercing one of the monitors which exploded in a hiss of light and smoke. Both men looked at the object, then back at Crowley. The man was pacing, rubbing his face with both hands. He came to a stop, turned to face the two men. "I want answers. I want them _now_. I want a consultant. I want to know _why_ it doesn't work—"

"Who should we call?" the first man asked.

The second shrugged. "Balthazar?"

"Don't be stupid," Crowley snapped. "We don't bring an angel into our business. We don't even know that he knows anything about our business with our little "friend" upstairs." He shook his head. "No. No, bring me Horace. Tell him I want his skinny ass here right now, and I want all the info he's got on this piece of shit." Crowley snatched the metal fragment from the monitor with a jerk of his hand and another pop of electricity. He looked at the two men. "Did I stammer? _**Move your bloody arses and get me some answers!**_"

* * *

><p>Crowley was sitting where the security men had been just earlier. He heard footsteps from the far end of the darkened hallway. Rubbing a hand over his face, he looked up.<p>

The body was perfectly suited; small, slender. Not attractive, but not off-putting. His face was thin, mouth small, and eyes rimmed with a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles. The spectacles had a long chain of pastel colored beads that, if the man removed them, would allow the spectacles to hang down on his chest. The man walked at a fast pace, wearing a neat argyle sweater and holding a large volume under one arm.

"A librarian," Crowley said dryly. "Fitting."

"Ironic," Horace responded, setting the book down on the table with a heavy 'thump.' "Cliché, perhaps. But not necessarily fitting." He brushed a bit of dust off the metal chair and held out his hand. "May I?"

Crowley smirked. "Of course." And on that, he held the metal fragment out to the other demon.

Horace began flipping through the pages of the book before him. "So… Chicago."

"That's right."

"And you trust the source?"

Crowley smirked. "Maybe not… but I did promise him I would be back if he tried to lie to me."

"What did he ask for it?"

"Not a thing… just wanted it gone."

Horace gave a grunt, no hint in his tone as to what he was thinking about that situation. He didn't look up from the book as he gestured. "Go fetch me a light, would you?"

Crowley raised an eyebrow. "Beg pardon?"

Horace looked up, his face as unreadable as always. "I'm assuming since you called me here, you're at your rope's end. If you're at your rope's end, you need me. And if you need me then… you're going to go… get me… a light."

Crowley's eyes narrowed and his pushed himself to his feet. He crossed the abandoned parking garage, picking up one of those new LED-style lanterns and turning it on. It was almost blinding. "You know," he said casually. "You used to be nice—"

"And you used to return my calls," Horace said levelly, not looking up as Crowley set down the lantern.

Crowley smirked. "You're not still sore about that, are you?"

Horace set down the metal fragment and very slowly looked up at Crowley. "What do you think?" He didn't wait for a response, already turned back to his work.

Several minutes passed in silence; Horace removing and replacing his glasses, examining the metal chunk with a magnifying glass and comparing it to pictures and diagrams in his book. Crowley sipped on his coffee, leaned against the door. From somewhere deep inside the basement of the parking garage, when neither of the two was moving, if you listened closely, you might hear screaming.

Horace sat back, pulling off his glasses and looking at Crowley. "Found it."

Crowley was across the room on his word. "What is it? What did you find?"

Horace turned the book toward Crowley. "You're missing a piece."

Crowley stared at the pictures, then at the metal fragment Horace had lined up beside the diagram. His jaw went tight. "Bloody h—"

"But there's good news," Horace said, pulling the book back to face him.

Crowley shoved off the desk and began pacing. "Doubting it."

Horace rolled his eyes, shutting the book. "The other piece is here."

Crowley did an about-face, his brow furrowed. "Come again?"

Horace stood, tucking the book under his arm. "The other piece… is here. On this very island."

Crowley frowned. "Where?"

Horace shrugged. "Well, if I knew that, don't you think I might have _led_ with that information?" He held up a finger as Crowley opened his mouth. "Luckily…" He reached into his pocket. "I know a man who knows a man."

"That's just bloody fantastic," Crowley muttered. "The run around, the chase, just what I needed—"

"No. No, all you need," Horace said, holding up the card. "Is this man. Word has it, he can get anything. For anyone."

"For a price, no doubt," Crowley muttered.

"No," Horace murmured, removing his glasses and letting them dangle on the argyle sweater from the beaded strand. "Sometimes yes, but sometimes…" He smirked. "I have to wonder if he doesn't have a little of the, ah… Devil in him."

Crowley twiddled the card between his fingers. "Does he now?"

"When he dies, you should consider recruiting him," Horace said. "He's a helluva salesman." He gave a single, weary smile to Crowley, picking up the heavy volume again and tucking it under his arm. He picked up the metal shard, held it out. "Do let me know how it goes, yes?"

Crowley picked the piece from Horace's fingers, tucked it away into the inner pocket of his waistcoat. "We'll see." He watched Horace walk down the long empty lines, heard his footsteps fade into the echo of nothing in the parking garage. He continued to twiddle the card in his fingers, watching the name go in and out of focus. He sighed and held the card still. He reached into his pocket, pulling out his mobile and dialing. He waited for the ringing to stop as he began pacing. "Yes, James Moriarty is it?" he said when the voice on the other end said 'hello.' "I have a business proposition for you…"

* * *

><p>Dean was getting better at riding in the TARDIS. However, the Doctor had also managed to make the flight considerably more stable once Sherlock pointed out the blue buttons that did, in fact, end up being stabilizers ("Just like the controls of your basic trading frigate." "BORING. NOW EVERYTHING IS BORING.")<p>

The Doctor was still brooding as he showed Sherlock how to work the computer console to scan for energy frequencies and life signs. He tried to explain to Sherlock repeatedly that those they were hunting wouldn't turn up with the usual scans, but Sherlock just assured him he had a few other ideas. It was at that moment that a light on the console pinged.

The Doctor looked down, frowning for a moment as he examined one of the miniature screens, playing an arpeggio on a toy piano. He suddenly smiled all teeth and laughter. "Oh, yes! Brilliant, just brilliant, you are. Sexy thing, you!"

The whole group went silent. "Uh, sorry," John murmured. "Who are you, um… talking to?"

The Doctor turned from the console, still smiling. "She's prepared rooms for you."

"She?" Dean asked.

The Doctor reached behind him and patted the console. "Brilliant, she is. Added private quarters, a game room, kitchen..." He glanced back at the panel then at the others. "And she's moved the swimming pool to the library. She thought Sam might like that."

Sam's eyes lit up as he looked around the TARDIS, this time with new eyes. "W-wait… sh… the TARDIS?"

"Yup," the Doctor beamed.

"It, I-I mean… she's _alive_?"

"Wonderful, isn't she?" the Doctor said. "Homegrown on Gallifrey. A little piece of home." His smile went a little sad as he stroked the console. "Quite a pair, we two… both the lasts of our kind. W… oi!"

Sherlock had, without so much as a word, pushed the Doctor out of his way as he swung the monitor screen around and began typing into another section of the TARDIS console. The Doctor stared at Sherlock, but it was clear the man was completely oblivious to all else in the room.

John gave a little sigh. "Sorry, he gets like that. Just…" He tried a smile. "Why don't we get the tour, then? Let Sherlock work in piece. You said something about private quarters?"

The Doctor smiled. "Well then… allons-y!"

* * *

><p>"Oh my God. Oh my GOD. Doc, seriously…" Dean Winchester turned from the kitchen, looking like a small child in a toy store. "I wish your blue box was a lady, because I want to hug the shit out of her."<p>

"That doesn't sound terribly comfortable," John said dryly, but Dean was already back to looking through the cupboards.

"This is amazing," Sam said, walking into the kitchen. "That library? It has all the books we have back home. Some of those volumes are centuries old, how did you—?"

"Digital replicas," the Doctor said with a smile. "If it has existed and someone somewhere has the knowledge of it… she can find it—weeell…" He gave a one-shouldered shrug. "Usually. Sometimes you might have to go do the legwork yourself to get the information, going back to 14th century, rummage through some papers, but still… brilliant in'she?"

"Crazy brilliant," Sam chuckled.

"Dude! Caramels!" Dean suddenly shouted, holding up a bowl filled with little brown squares wrapped in cellophane.

The Doctor nudged John. "There's also a tea cart over in the corner. Nobody makes a cup like my Sexy."

"Sexy?" Sam repeated, smiling.

The Doctor gave him a look. "You want to try to tell me otherwise?"

Sam put up both hands in defense, chuckling. "Not a chance."

Dean had stuffed one cheek full of caramels and was now struggling to chew them all at once. "Gotta say, Doc," he said, cradling the bowl of sweets in one arm. "If she was a real woman, I'd want to make sweet, sweet love to her every day for the rest of my life."

"And as a real gentlemen, I'd have to protect her from you, Dean Winchester," the Doctor said with a little laugh. "Oh, which reminds me—thank you, Dean—the private quarters are up this staircase and to the left."

"Private quarters?" Dean asked. "What, you mean like bedrooms?"

John gave a little smirk, waiting to see if Dean was serious before murmuring, "that is… what private quarters would imply, yes."

Dean shoved the caramels at Sam, before taking off in the direction the Doctor had indicated. "I find one I like, I call dibs!"

"Don't mind him," Sam sighed, setting the bowl of caramels down on the table.

"Oh, we won't," the Doctor said. "The rooms have been customized according to your personalities. The chance of him wanting the room that wasn't made specifically for him is… I'd say one to 12,456,234,938."

"Awesome," Sam chuckled.

The Doctor smiled. "Isn't it? Yeah, the three rooms are—"

"Wait, hold on," John said, frowning. "Three rooms?"

The Doctor stared at him. "Yeah. She made three."

John was already shaking his head. "No. No, nonono, no, really getting sick of th—we're not a couple. We're not. Never have been, never will be, never—"

"Dude!" Dean cackled, running back into the kitchen and looking at Sam. "We've got bunk beds! How fucking sweet is this?" Before anyone could say anything, Dean had disappeared back down the hall.

John blinked once. Then again. Then stared at the floor. "Sam and Dean are sharing a room."

The Doctor nodded.

John looked up at him. "Sherlock and I have our own rooms."

The Doctor smirked. "Naturally. However, she put a door that conjoins your room. Thought it might be best since Sherlock loves to pace and talk aloud. Might not be best if he had a room entirely to himself."

John stared a moment, nodding to himself. "Right." He gestured at the hallway. "I'm… going to go take a look at my room, if you don't mind."

"Not at all," the Doctor said. "Help yourself."

"Right." John gave them a sheepish grin, gestured again. "Off I go." He disappeared down the hallway, muttering something under his breath along the lines of, "_oh God, embarrassing yourself, well done John, next time just shut up_."

Sam looked at the Doctor. "Hey… you got a minute?"

"Always," the Doctor said. "What do you need, Sam?"

Sam's throat worked a moment, and he nodded toward the library. "Walk with me," he murmured. The Doctor fell into step alongside him as Sam ran a hand through his hair. "I think I might have a thought on what we were all talking about earlier."

"Which what?" the Doctor asked. "We talked about a lot of whats—"

"What a demon would want with an alien," Sam said.

The Doctor nodded. "Right, right." He sucked in a breath through his teeth. "Now, just to—pardon the phrase—play devil's advocate… how can we be sure these so-called demons are actually involved? It could be signs of something completely different, maybe—"

"The signs are good, Doc, and even if they aren't…" Sam sighed. "Look, I just got to get this off my chest. There's this… demon we know, right? Crowley."

"Alright."

"There's a lot of history there. A lot of bad blood."

"Okay."

Sam sighed, running both hands over his face. "I'm trying to think of the shortest way to explain it without making it sound absolutely ridiculous and impossible."

The Doctor looked at Sam a long moment, examining his face carefully. "Sam," he murmured after a pause. "You say whatever you need to say and take however long you need to, okay? I'll listen."

Sam chuckled. "Yeah, I know. I just don't know that you'll believe me."

The Doctor smiled. "When you've seen as much as I have in this crazy universe, you start to get that sometimes, if it sounds impossible… it's probably _not_. Not if you hear the whole story."

Sam thought about that a moment, taking a deep breath. He looked back at the Doctor, his expression stony. "It's a long story."

"Is it?" the Doctor smiled. "I love long stories. And in here," he said, gesturing at the room around them, the TARDIS. "We have all the time in the world."

Sam swallowed hard. "Right." He gave a nervous chuckle. "Well, I guess we'll start from the beginning."

* * *

><p>Sam did his best to recall the details as close as possible for the Doctor. He told him everything; about Jessica, the yellow-eyed demon Azazel, his father's death, the powers, accidentally opening the doors of hell. And that was just the tip of the iceberg. He told the Doctor about Lilith, Ruby, about his death, <em>Dean's<em> death and that damn contract, the hellhounds out for Dean's and the god awful screaming.

And then Castiel. Brilliant, ridiculous, fantastic Cas.

A minor hope that maybe they could stop the apocalypse, stop the seals being broken, avoid fate and save free will, a billion impossible things that had all happened to him, his brother, Bobby, and an angel in a trench coat. The Doctor smiled as Sam told the stories, occasionally shaking his head and murmuring something about how fascinating humans were. No matter how impossible the odds, they were the first to fight for their survival.

He told the Doctor about Michael and Lucifer, about that last encounter and then… nothing. Not nothing, exactly, but just what everyone else had told him. For the first time in ages, he was actually able to tell someone about not being able to remember the Pit. About how scared he was about the things he'd done during that time without his soul. The Doctor listened, his brow furrowed with concern. When all was said and done, all he could say was, "I'm sorry, Sam. I am so sorry."

Sam said little of Dean's year alone, barely touched on the ongoing war in Heaven and Castiel's in-fighting with Raphael. He did his best to piece together the last while with what he knew and what he didn't know: Crowley hiring him and Dean to find him souls, the plan to open purgatory, Eve, the whole lot of it. He explained about souls, the currency of Heaven and Hell, and how Crowley wanted nothing more than to buy his position more permanently. He talked about how Cas had torched Crowley's bones—he had to explain to the Doctor why this should have worked—and then, for the first time, he said what he had been fearing all along.

"I don't think Crowley is dead."

The Doctor leaned back in his chair. They were sitting around a small wooden table on the far end of the library by the side of the pool. "What makes you say that?"

Sam shook his head. "I don't know, I just…" He swallowed. "What Eve said. It didn't sound like she was lying. She said it over and over, that Crowley was alive, and that she wanted him dead. That's impossible."

"Maybe burning the bones really was a myth," the Doctor said.

Sam shook his head. "Bobby tested it on another crossroads demon. Definitely foolproof."

The Doctor's expression didn't change. "You think Castiel planned it," he murmured.

Sam winced. It sounded so much worse when it was said aloud. "I just… don't think it's possible for Cas to have messed up. He doesn't mess up. Especially not with things like this."

The Doctor nodded slowly, scratching under his chin. "What does your brother think?"

Sam shook his head. "We don't talk about it. Even suggesting the Cas would do something like this, is…" Sam sighed, looking at the ceiling. "Y'know, I want so bad to believe he's right. Cas is like a brother, y'know? The idea that he would ever get mixed up in something like this is just…"

"Could Eve have been lying?"

Sam shook his head. "I don't think she was. I know that's no answer, but… man, she sounded really desperate. Like all she really wanted really was to protect her kids."

The Doctor nodded. "It's all _any_ mother wants."

"Yeah," Sam murmured, rubbing under his eyes. "But anyway… remember how I told you I have a theory? About the demons?"

"Of course," the Doctor said.

Sam stood, walking to a bookshelf. "Now, I'm just throwing this theory out there. I don't know if it's true, and even if it is, how they would even go about doing it, but here it is." He picked out a book and carried it back to the table, flipping through it. "Hypothetically, let's say Crowley is still alive."

"Alright."

"And he's still looking for souls to cash in, right?"

The Doctor frowned. "Right."

"I remember this entry from when we had that first run-in with Balthazar," Sam said. "I didn't think anything of it at the time because it wasn't anything relevant, but…" He sighed. "They say that there are items. Relics that, if dipped in the blood of a…" He sighed. "The word is hard to translate. It's… God, demi-God, I don't know. But they say these items can house souls."

The Doctor's frown was set deep as Sam showed him a picture in the book. "By house, I'm guessing what you actually think it means is trap. You think this relic could… trap a human soul—"

"Not just human souls," Sam murmured. "_Any_ soul. There's some seriously old text on it, we're talking 14th century dark magic. It's almost a side branch of alchemy, this idea that you could trap the soul of a tree or a bird… or a werewolf. Worse still, it sounds like there's more than one of these relic-things. I'm going to put Bobby on it but…" He swallowed. "Now, it's a long shot, okay? I know it is, and I know it sounds crazy, but…" He took a deep breath. "What if… big if… but what if Crowley is still collecting souls? What if he's got his hand on one of these and—"

"He's trying to harvest the souls of the escapees," the Doctor murmured, eyes gone wide.

Sam nodded. "That's… what I'm afraid of. And if alien souls are anything like the souls in purgatory—"

"The exchange rate will put their value through the roof," the Doctor murmured. "This isn't good."

"It's just a theory," Sam said, trying to keep his voice steady. "But if there's even a chance of it being true—"

"We need to find our escapees and soon," the Doctor finished. He sighed. "Ironic, isn't it. A whole mess of this lot breaks out, thinks they're safe out of harm's way, and instead, they just jumped in front of a speeding train."

"Look," Sam said. "We don't know anything just yet, so I think we should keep this between us until—"

"Hey kids," Dean said, rounding the corner and knocking on the side of a bookshelf. "Sherly says he's got something. Wants all hands on deck upstairs." He frowned, looking between the Doctor and his brother. "You two okay? You look friggin' pasty."

The Doctor was the first to chime in. "Eh, it's all Sam's fault. Telling me ghost stories and the like. Quite the adventures you boys have, I'll tell you."

"You stick around long enough, Doc, you might get to be in one," Dean chuckled. "Now, come on, let's get going."

The Doctor watched Dean walk away, turning when Sam grabbed his arm. "Doctor… not a word about this, okay?"

"Cross my hearts," the Doctor said, drawing two "xes" on his chest. "Not a word until we know."

"Thank you," Sam said. "And, uh… thanks for listening."

The Doctor smiled at him. "S'what I'm here for. Now, come on. Let's see what news Sherlock has for us."

* * *

><p>Crowley went to the appointed address at the appointed time. He took the elevator to the top floor of the building where there was a posh restaurant, complete with fountains, jazz pianist, and floor to ceiling windows that perfectly framed the city below. There wasn't much business in the place, but then again, these were lunch hours. He gave the hostess the name for the reservation, Moriarty, and was then escorted to a small table next to one of the windows. He was told Mr. Moriarty would be escorted to the table when he arrived. Crowley gave a little sigh of contempt.<p>

He hated arriving to the restaurant first.

He checked his mobile; nothing new to report. The waiter, a skinny young man, asked if he'd like anything to start. Crowley ordered a glass of the oldest whiskey from the bar, no ice. The young man told him he'd be back shortly. Outside, the city was teeming with energy, strangely silent behind layers of glass. He could even see the Bentley, valet parked two lots over. Good. If anyone so much as breathed on it, he could have them throttled. The waiter returned with his whiskey and a napkin, said, "Enjoy."

He checked his watch again.

This Moriarty fellow was ten minutes late. And Crowley's patience was wearing thin. He looked around the dining hall. There was a young couple in a booth near the center of the room, making soft animated conversation over coffee. Another gentlemen seated at a table further down was eating a salad of micro greens and house vinaigrette made from only organic ingredients while checking stock reports on his mobile. Dull. All so very dull. He sipped at the whiskey, barely noting the sharp aftertaste and bite as the hostess walked toward him. She was carrying a small plate with a stainless silver lid. She placed it in front of Crowley without so much as a word and returned to her post.

Crowley frowned at the plate, still covered by the lid. He looked to his left at the couple, the business man on the phone. He looked toward the kitchens and the hostess and the pianist, now playing a sultry rendition of "Cry Me a River." Something was off. He pulled out his phone again, pressed but one button then returned it to his pocket. He removed the lid from the plate.

A mobile in a pink case was set in the middle of the plate, the screen dark. Crowley picked it up, touched the screen to wake it and saw that there was "one new text message." He pulled it open.

_Mr. Crowley. What can I do for you today? _

Crowley's jaw worked in silence. He began typing out a message. _Moriarty, I take it? _ He drummed his fingers on the table until the phone beeped that a new message had arrived. He opened it.

_Correct, Sir! Down to business then. _

Crowley's mouth pulled into a small point. _I like to look someone in the eye when I strike a deal. _ A pause. Another beep.

_ :/ _

Crowley snorted. _Adorable. But no face-to-face, no deal. And I'm here to tell you, it's a hell of a deal. _ He ran a hand over his mouth and waited for the response, pulled it up.

_Attitude like that, you can pay for your own whiskey. :P _

Crowley's head whipped up. He looked over the restaurant again; the couple, the accountant, the hostess, the pianist, the barkeep. _So which one are you? Or are you just sitting in the office building across the way with a pair of binoculars and watching m…_ Crowley smirked and erased the last bit. _and enjoying the view? _

The message came almost the moment Crowley set the phone down. _Aren't you a forward one? And is that Westwood you're wearing? Man after my own heart. _

Crowley chuckled. Two could play at this little game. _Why else do you think I want to see your pretty face to make this deal? _ This time there was a notable length of time before the response arrived.

_And who's to say I won't have someone cut off your pretty face so I can wear it and your Westwood instead? _

Crowley couldn't help but smile. Whoever this Moriarty fellow was, he liked him. Quite a lot. _Because if you weren't interested, you'd have stopped texting me by now. Now stop playing hard to get, or I'll have to do something awful to you. He_ sipped at his whiskey, checked the next message.

_Promise? _

Crowley gnawed on his lower lip for a moment, smirking. _And then some. _ He set the phone down, picked up his whiskey and lifted it to his lips. He froze. The man at the table with his accounts folded up his paper, left everything at the table and walked away. The couple followed suit, leaving their meals unfinished and the coffee untouched. The jazz music stopped playing and the barkeep had vanished. The hostess was nowhere to be seen. The entire restaurant was silent. Crowley put the glass to his lips, taking a sip then swirling the amber liquid in the bottom of the glass before setting it back down. At a pair of footsteps, he looked up.

The waiter who had brought him his drink stood at the threshold of the restaurant. He didn't take his eyes off of Crowley as he checked his cufflinks, then his tie. "You're a dirty, dirty flirt… aren't you, Mister Crowley?" His voice was strange. Young and lilting with a heavy Irish accent. There was something about the tone, though. The way the boy spoke. It was as though each word was a flavor and he tasted them in turn, tone rising and inflecting where he should have spoken steady.

But he was certainly easy on the eyes.

Crowley turned his head slightly, gave him a once over. He looked different in the tailored suit; taller. Maybe even older. It was a charcoal grey with pinstripes that seemed to be dark emerald. The shirt itself was a vibrant green, almost a neon were it not so deep a color. And a black tie with a silver tie pin. He looked like something of a dangerous rainforest snake. Or would have if not for that smile. Those big, wide eyes and the wide smirk on his face.

Crowley stood in one smooth movement and gestured to the chair across from him. "Perhaps. But I don't make promises I can't keep."

The man's lips twitched, into a sneer or a grin, Crowley couldn't be sure, and he started toward the table. "I thought you were here for business. Not pleasure."

"I multitask."

The man clicked in his cheek, shrugged a shoulder. "People usually slip up when they start multitasking; can't keep all their little ducks in a box."

Crowley smirked. "I'm not people."

"No?" the man said, taking his seat. "We'll see." He held out his hand. "Jim Moriarty."

"Crowley," the demon said, shaking the man's hand and taking his seat. "A friend told me you're the sort who can get things done quietly."

The man beamed like a child, shrugged his shoulders clear up to his ears. "It's a gift."

"How much does it cost to let one use your gift?" Crowley asked, tracing a finger around the edge of his glass, making it ring.

Moriarty turned his head to one side, half listening to the crystal hum as his eyes fluttered shut. "No… nnnnno, I don't do price quotes."

"Really?"

"No," Moriarty said, eyes opening. "I have to know if it's any fun."

Crowley raised an eyebrow. "Fun?"

Moriarty made a face like someone who has just been told they've won the lottery, held it for a good few seconds, and then relaxed. "Y'know… _fun._" He said the last word the way some people might say sex.

Crowley stopping ringing his glass, setting his hand flat on the table. "How much fun do you think it would be to break into one of the largest museums in the world?"

Moriarty thought a moment, staring off into space. He looked back at Crowley, smiling. "I'm listening."

"The British Museum has a feature going on," Crowley said. "Early Christianity, or something… they have a small collection of weaponry from that time period." He smirked. "I want it."

Moriarty was practically ecstatic, failing to suppress the huge smile from taking over his face. "Do we have a timeline, or…?"

"As soon as humanly possible."

The man smiled. "I do believe you are growing on me, Mr. Crowley."

Crowley returned the smile. "I do believe I want to, Mr. Moriarty."

"Don't move so quickly," Moriarty said, the smile gone from his face. "I might get bored."

Crowley watched him take a napkin; begin writing on it in pen. He bit his lower lip. "I can promise you, Sir, I am anything but a bore."

Moriarty handed him the napkin. "My number." He stood from the table, buttoned his suit coat again and smoothed it out with both hands. "Looking forward to your call," he said, nearly in sing-song.

"Looking forward to calling," Crowley said.

Moriarty turned from the table and began walking toward the door. He gave a little finger wave, not looking back at the demon. "I'll be in touch."

Crowley watched the man leave, taking careful note of the way the suit hugged the man's body; the way the fabric spread across his shoulders, the divot that accented his waistline. When the man was out of sight, Crowley picked up his drink and finished it in one quick sip. He shook his head, smiling. "Damn fine businessman."

-END OF EPISODE 2


	3. Chapter 3

"I ran the samples from the apartment and—"

"Whoa, whoa, wait," Dean said, holding up both hands. "What samples?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "The ones I pick-pocketed off of Lestrade. _Obviously_."

Sam snorted. "Wait, so… you pick pocketed your chief of police—"

"Chief _Inspector_, and yes," Sherlock drawled, typing away at the TARDIS console. "He was being annoying."

John's face scrunched up. "Sorry… how was he being annoying this time?"

"Calling the Winchester's fake supervisor," Sherlock said. "Did he really think I'd let just anyone tag along with me to a crime scene?"

"You have to admit, your entourage is getting bigger," the Doctor said. "May seem a little odd."

"Especially for you, Sherlock," John added.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Please, you thought it was odd that I'd have a black-lacquer cow skull up on my wall with headphones on it."

John stared at Sherlock for a long moment, then began rubbing his temples with both hands. "I-I'm sorry… how does that prove that you are _not_, in fact, odd—?"

"Alright!" the Doctor intervened, clapping his hands together and stepping between the two. "Moving right along… before we have a domestic on our hands."

John's cheeks went pink. "We're not…" He gave up halfway through the statement and sat back in his chair.

The Doctor gestured. "Sherlock, if you would?"

Sherlock's eyes were narrowed on The Doctor, but he said nothing more about the situation. He sighed, swinging the monitor for the others to see as well. "As I said, I ran the samples through the TARDIS. Much more efficient than the lab equipment; the results were almost instantaneous. So first there is the concrete dust from the footprints in the apartment."

Sherlock pulled up the screen, zoomed in on three microscope slides. "Along with the traditional elements found in commercial concretes, there were traces of calcium chloride, calcium nitrate, and sodium nitrate. It's a newer compound, usually found in quick-drying cement. Two companies here in England use quick drying cement, two more when you include the south area of Scotland. And between the four of them, there are over fourty-eight buildings featuring such cement."

"Forty-ei—" Dean shook his head, standing. "We're going to have to look through forty-eight places?"

Sherlock was typing away. "No, fortunately. I've narrowed it down to two."

"Two?" Sam asked. "Really?"

"Really."

"How?"

"The paint."

"The paint?"

Sherlock turned from the console, looking right at Sam. "Yes, Samuel, the paint. Are you going to repeat everything I say, or may I continue?"

Sam swallowed, looking sheepish. "Right, sorry."

Sherlock went back to typing. "The paint… I found it along the baseboards in the kitchen, little flecks of white paint—"

"Yeah, they were white baseboards," John said, frowning.

"Thought about that," Sherlock said. "So I scratched off a little of the paint on the wall as well. The paints don't match. One of them is a typical household paint, the one from the baseboards, but the other? It's old commercial grade paint, old enough that it still contains traces of lead in the compound. So we're looking for a building that was built before or during the time they still put lead in paint, but has been recovered within the timeframe of any of these four companies starting to use the rapid-set cement. Take into account the traces of limestone from the dust sample, that eliminates two of the contractors, then cross-reference for buildings in the area, rule out the buildings outside a two hour driving distance—"

"Two hours?" Sam asked. When Sherlock gave him "the look," he mouthed an apology.

"The landlady said she blacked out for about five hours. Shave off an hour for the actual kidnapping and then the drop off and yes, two hours, if that. So buildings that are over two hours from the woman's apartment are rendered null, check for zoning information and building dates, and…" Sherlock opened a screen, gesturing at the monitor. "Two buildings. One on the east end of Oxford, the other just outside of Dartford, almost alongside the river. Both of them car parks."

Once again, nearly in unison, Sam and John both murmured, "Wow," and "Fantastic."

"Yeah, right, awesome," Dean said. "So now what?"

Sherlock stared at him. "Investigate both the locations, naturally. Judging from the apparent level of planning that went into this entire kidnapping, I'd be willing to wager that they aren't ready to simply pack up and leave at a moment's notice, so—"

"That's not what I mean," Dean said. "I'm talking about our game plan. How are we actually getting in there and taking these guys out?"

John frowned. "How do you mean? Like—?"

"I mean, we're not just talking about a couple of gang-bangers or some kids all hopped up on crack," Dean said, looking around at the others. "We're talking _demons_."

Sherlock snorted. "Demons?" he repeated.

"Yeah, demons," Dean snapped. "And don't get all smart-assey with your deductions and crap. We know what to look for, alright? Sam and I have been at this since we were kids."

"Remind me why you invited them along?" Sherlock muttered, looking at the Doctor.

The Doctor sighed. "Sherlock—"

"Because if I wanted to delve into the supernatural, I'd go shopping at the teen section of a bookstore—"

Dean lunged at Sherlock. "Oh you did not just compare us to the Twitards, you son of a bitch!"

Sam grabbed hold of Dean swinging him back behind him and holding him back until he calmed down. Sam turned toward Sherlock. "Look, I know it sounds crazy. I know. And if I hadn't seen it first hand over and over, I'd probably think we were all basket cases, too. But you gotta trust us on this." Sam swallowed, looking from person to person. "I know it sounds… impossible. And hopefully we're wrong. But for now? Please? Just… pretend that we know what we're talking about. Maybe something will happen, maybe nothing will, just…" Sam shrugged. "Let us take some precautions before we go out there and start poking things with a big stick, okay?"

John was staring at Sam, looking slightly confused. "What sort of precautions are we talking about, exactly?"

Dean sighed. "Doc? We're going to need to pay a visit to my baby."

The Doctor's eyebrows went up. "Sorry, what?"

* * *

><p>A short trip to the Impala later (and then some time coaxing Dean back into the TARDIS), the Winchester brothers returned with four duffle bags, three milk jugs filled with holy water, and two large sacks of rock salt. The others helped them carry the things to the kitchen and set them on the table.<p>

"What exactly is it you lot carry in these?" the Doctor asked, dumping one of the duffels onto the table. "Bricks?"

"Protection," Dean said as he tugged the zipper open on one of the bags.

John was already rifling through one of the bags. His eyes went wide. "Whoa," he murmured. "Um… you have quite the, ah… arsenal. Is all this really necessary?"

"What's wrong, Johnny-Boy?" Dean asked with a smirk. "You never seen one of these bad-boys up close and personal before?"

John gave Dean a look and a soft laugh. "Uh, actually," he said, pulling a hand gun from the bag. "I probably know more about these so-called bad-boys than you." He ejected the clip and examined it before pushing it back in and turning the gun over in his hand. "Colt Mark IV, M1911A1... uncustomized, ivory grips, with chrome plating." He gave Dean a look. "I'm a Browning man, myself."

Dean's eyebrows were raised, clearly impressed. "Wow. Johnny-boy has a dark side we don't know about."

John scoffed. "Hardly," he said, setting the gun down on the table as Sam began unloading the bags. "I served in the military."

"He was a doctor," Sherlock said leaning over the table to look over the various firearms.

"I saw enough combat, believe me," John said.

"You ever use one of these?" Sam asked, tossing John the shotgun.

He caught it, felt the weight of it in his hands before pulling it up against his shoulder. "Not exactly standard issue for a doctor, but I know my way around it. Ithaca?"

"37," Sam confirmed. "My baby."

"Very nice. Feels good. Not too heavy—"

"Wait until you—"

"That's an awful lot of guns," The Doctor said. His eyes were stern, jaw set.

Dean glanced at him then shrugged. "Yeah, well… we fight an awful lot of demons."

"Fight or kill?" the Doctor asked, not looking up from the growing arsenal displayed on the table.

Dean looked back up, setting down the gun he was examining and leaning on the table. "There a problem, Doc—?"

"Oh, yes," the Doctor said, spinning on his heels to look Dean in the eye. "Guns. I don't. like. _guns_."

Dean opened his mouth to speak, but Sam cut him off. "Look, I get it, I do. So… no worries. We'll take care of the firearms, and—"

"This isn't about me using them, it's about us," the Doctor said flatly. "Any of us. I've been around humans long enough to know if they are carrying a gun, it isn't because they intend to ask questions first—"

"Yeah, well neither do demons," Dean snapped. "And I hate to break it to you, Doc, these demons? They aren't going to give you the damn time of day before they shoot your ass. And I don't care how good you are. No one's bad ass enough to take a frag round to the face and walk away from it."

The Doctor held Dean's gaze a long moment, his jaw set. Very slowly, a smirk came over his expression. "Oh, Dean. Dean Winchester. You clearly don't understand how I work."

"Oh, I understand," Dean said. "I just disagree—"

"Everyone deserves a chance."

Dean ran a hand over his face with a sigh. "Okay, maybe this is hard to wrap your alien brain around. We're talking demons. The very _definition_ of unredeemable, okay? Lying, cheating, and killing is in the job description, and they love their jobs. All of them. You give them so much as a chance, and—"

"Nevertheless," the Doctor said. "If you don't mind… I'll take the chance and this time. We do it my way, or we don't do it at all."

"Oh, really? Well—"

"Doc, look," Sam said, cutting Dean off. "We're not talking about going in there guns blazing. We're talking about going in there safe. Look," he said, grabbing one of the shotguns and popping out a shell. He broke it open and emptied the contents onto the table. "Rock salt."

The Doctor frowned as Sherlock reached forward, picking up a few grains. "Alright, I'm curious," he said. "Why rock salt?"

"One of the few things that will slow them down," Sam said.

"What are the other things?" John asked.

Sam shrugged. "Holy water. Iron. Palo Santo—"

"Which we don't have because it's fucking _impossible_ to get your hands on in the states," Dean complained, folding his arms across his chest.

"Devil's Traps can hold them long enough for an exorcism, but—"

"Wait, wait, exorcism?" John asked, cutting him off. "Not like… like the movie, right, we're talking something different—"

"Not exactly," Sam sighed.

"Less pea soup and more mouthy asshole," Dean said with a smirk.

John sighed. "Brilliant. That sounds just… fantastic."

"Exorcism," the Doctor murmured, "so these demons, the things you hunt, they're… _inside_ human bodies? Literally taking control of them."

"Uh, yeah," Dean said. "Kind of the standard demon hijinks I was talking about."

"But there's still a _human_ in there!" the Doctor shouted. "A living, breathing human—!"

"Here's what you're missing out on, Doc," Dean snapped, rounding on him. "Demon takes a body for a joyride, they aren't worried about upkeep. They aren't eating, they aren't drinking. Long drops and broken bones? Not even going to phase them, okay? Regular bullets? Maybe they'll stumble. And even if you get a shot at exorcising a demon? Nine times out of ten, host isn't walking away from that. They are _fried_. If you don't get them out in that first little window of time? You're not going to be getting them out at _all_." Dean shook his head. "They might look like people, Doc… but the person inside is long gone. They're parasites, Doc. We're just here to take care of the pest problem."

The Doctor leaned back, shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his trenchcoat and clicked his tongue. "Yeah, well… m'sure a certain German man once thought the same thing about the Jews."

"Oh, you did not just—!"

"Gentlemen, come on," John said, reaching an arm between them. "Let's just… not get ahead of ourselves."

"Everyone deserves a chance," the Doctor said flatly.

Dean threw up both his hands. "Y'know what. Fine. _Fine_." He started walking in the direction of the bedrooms. "You can get in there your damn self. Have a nice tea party with them while they try to rip out your throat. No skin off my back."

Sam sighed. "Dean—"

"Oh, and another thing," Dean snapped, spinning around. "You might not be aware of this, but I spent a little time on the rack _downstairs_. I was a fucking prisoner of war. I know what those mothers are capable of, more than anyone else here. Maybe more than anyone on the Goddamn planet. So I'll tell you what, Doc. I don't want to hear any apologies or explanations, because you know what? I told you so." He took a deep breath, looking from face to face, holding a long stare with Sam, then back to the Doctor. "You do things your way, Doc, I'll do them mine. And if that means you don't want me here, fine. Just drop me back off at the car."

The Doctor sighed. "I never said I didn't want you here, Dean—"

"Yeah, well you sure as hell don't want my advice," Dean muttered to the floor.

"Look," Sam said. "How about Dean just hangs back for now? The four of us can go scout things out. We can split up, each of us takes a building. We'll take just the basics; holy water and spray paint." He looked at the Doctor. "No guns. If it looks hairy, we bail and come back packing heat."

"Dangerous," Sherlock murmured. "One hell of a risk."

"More like a _suicide run_," Dean snapped, leaning against the wall near the hallway. "You'd be stupid to go in with nothing but a flask of water and a couple of Devil's Traps—"

"So we meet somewhere in the middle," John said, his tone suddenly harsher than any had heard him use before. More authoritative. "Listen. What if we took those things you mentioned, but we also take the guns with the rock salt shells. Salt is non-lethal, but—" he added as the Doctor gave him a significant look, "—as per the Doctor's orders… no one shoots until he gives the go-ahead."

"Which I won't," the Doctor mumbled.

"But that way," John said, giving the Doctor a harsh stare, "we are prepared. Just in case."

Sam looked at Dean. "There. Compromise. Now will you come with us?"

Dean's eyes narrowed. "Fine." In the same breath, he added, "but I'm going with whoever doesn't go with the Doc."

"Glad we're all behaving like grownups," Sherlock drawled.

"Hey, screw you, Sherly—!"

"Alright, enough!" John snapped. "All of you!"

The entire room fell silent, staring at the small blonde man who was covering his face with both hands, shaking his head. "God, you're all giving me a bloody headache." He shrugged at the cupboard behind them. "Someone put a pot on."

"On it," Sam said, walking toward the cabinets.

John sighed, pulling out a chair and taking a seat at the table. "Someone get me a printout of the schematics of these carparks? We need to figure out our approach."

Sherlock's mouth twitched into a grin, but he said nothing to John, merely nudged the Doctor. "So, printing capabilities of the TARDIS…?"

The Doctor followed Sherlock away, rambling something about the output levels and the technology of the ink they used and so on and so on.

Meanwhile, Dean was back to standing at the end of the table. He stared at John as the man began muttering to himself, making mental notes and planning the coming approach. Dean cleared his throat. "So, uh… what do I do?"

John sighed. "I don't know, just… don't talk, alright? My head hurts well enough on it's own."

Dean frowned, looking at Sam who just shrugged. Dean took a seat and commenced to moping. In silence.

* * *

><p>Irene Adler checked her mobile for the sixth time in the last five minutes. She wasn't sure what she was expecting. Certainly not another text. Her orders had been clear. And this time, following them to the letter was of utmost importance. No loose ends this round and no room for personal involvement.<p>

"What makes you so sure I need the job?" she asked when the call first came.

"Oh, dear thing," the voice on the other line said, with a tone something like a cat lounging in the sunlight. "Ducking out in Qatar, picking up the occasional client and scrapes, hoping no one important realizes you go on ticking like a tightly-wound clock." He chuckled. "You're _dying…_ for work."

Irene had swallowed. The way he said dying made it sound less like conversation, less like an offer. More like an _order_. She cleared her throat. "Guilty as charged," she whispered.

Nothing but silence on the other end.

Irene took a deep breath. _Oh God_. "What can I do for you today, Mr. Moriarty?" she asked, hoping he didn't hear the quiver in her false bravado, knowing he already had.

She could hear his snake-like smile on the other end of the line. "Get a pen, kitten."

Three sets of forged papers, two stolen identities, and one plane-ride later, not only was she back in London. She was back in style.

Moriarty certainly knew how to treat a girl. Even though she'd never set her eyes on the man herself, he seemed to know exactly what tickled her fancy; Closets filled with the latest fashions, the finest lingerie, and the most expensive jewelry.

And then she received the second call.

"Tell the client that won't be necessary," she said, painting her toenails. "I work better alone."

"Not your call," Moriarty said. He sounded distracted. It might have been the sound of heavy machinery in the background. That or the screaming. "Client insisted. _Insurance_, he called it." Judging from his tone, he was as pleased about the situation as she was.

Irene finished blowing on her nails and set to applying the second coat. "Nothing to be done about it, I suppose," she sighed. "But it shouldn't be too much trouble." She smirked. "I do enjoy giving orders."

"I trust I won't find you mixing business and pleasure…" His tone was suddenly empty. Almost void of tone. "Curiosity, kitten… as the saying goes. We learned our lesson… didn't we?"

Irene leaned back. Her mouth drew to a fine line. "All too well," she said, almost whispered. She waited, held her breath listening for his response. She waited for what felt like ages before she finally heard the other line disconnect.

And now here she was, sitting in a café, waiting to make contact with her, _apparent_ associate. For the course of the job, at least. And that was only if she couldn't lose him at the first opportunity. Or the second. There was nothing more loathsome than a man with privilege, especially considering that privilege usually seemed to lump her and her body into the equation.

She sighed and fiddled with the edge of a napkin, looking bored as she kept constant watch for this man. There was a fat gentlemen in a suit—thank _God_ he was being escorted to the other side of the café—then another man, under-dressed for the establishment and clearly aware of it, but he walked past her table and slid into a seat across from a woman who was too young to be his wife. He kept his hands under the table as he tugged off his wedding band, pocketed it. Irene gave a little snort, rolled her eyes and went back to playing with her napkin. _Men_.

She glanced up and froze where she sat. In the same instant, she readjusted herself, masking her body language, but unable to take her eyes off the woman. She was young, but no more than five or so years younger than Irene, herself. She had rich, caramel colored hair, styled in loose curls to frame her heart-shaped face and blue eyes. The grey, cocktail dress wrapped around her body, leaving little from the waist up to the imagination, and swirling down to her knees; just enough leg to keep a girl's interest.

Irene couldn't help but smile and chuckle to herself as she looked the other woman over. The things she would like to do with someone so fit…

And then the unthinkable…

The woman looked directly at Irene and started walking toward her.

Irene didn't move, simply inclined her head and stared back. There was no point in backing down now. She'd clearly been caught. She leaned back in her chair, uncrossed her legs and smoothed out her skirt. She ran through seven possible apologies and three ways to invite the woman back to her apartment, opened her mouth to speak, when things became significantly more interesting.

The woman extended a hand to her, a smirk tugging at the corners of her mouth. A flash of too-white teeth and she spoke. "Irene Adler, I presume."

Irene felt her face reacting without her permission and quickly reigned in her surprise. "You presume correctly," she said, shaking the other woman's hand and then gesturing to the chair across from her. "You'll have to excuse me. I wasn't expecting—"

"A woman?" the other woman said, still smug and smiling.

Irene couldn't help but smile. "Ironic, isn't it?" she said as she watched her companion slip into her seat. "I spend all afternoon bracing myself to deal with a slab of meat, and…" Irene chuckled. "Well, let's just say I'm very glad to make your acquaintance. I don't think I caught your name."

"Bela Talbot," she said, tucking one ankle behind the other.

"And…" Irene glanced down at her cell phone again, then back at Bela. "What exactly is your specialty, Bela?"

"I procure rare items for a select clientele," she said. Her expression changed, but the smile stayed on. "Or, rather… I used to. Currently I am working exclusively with one client."

"A Mister Crowley, I believe I was told," Irene said. She hesitated a moment before adding, "you don't sound particularly pleased with the situation."

Bela glanced up through dark lashes. "No, that's…" She cleared her throat. "Mister Crowley presented me with a… rare opportunity. I may not be entirely content with the terms of my…" She said the next word softly, almost hesitant to speak it aloud. "_Contract_, but…" She forced a smile. "I could be much worse off than working for Anthony J. Crowley… believe me."

Irene decided not to press the issue and changed the subject. "Well, moving right along, then… I suppose you've been briefed as to the object which Mr. Crowley wants us to procure."

"Not in gritty detail, but yes," Bela said. "I know of it."

Irene nodded, beginning to type notes onto her phone. "And the British Museum?" Irene asked. "How familiar are you with the layout?"

"Not very, I'm afraid," Bela admitted. "I haven't been there since I was a little girl." At Irene's glance, she added, "And I've spent much of my time overseas. Americans seem to be more… greedy, as a whole."

Irene smirked and looked back at her phone. "Really? I must be in the wrong country. Well, I have some mark-ups and the like back at my flat." Her eyes flicked up. "Unless it's too soon to ask you back to my place."

Bela smirked. She unrolled her napkin, setting the silverware off to one side and then smoothing the cloth over her lap. "How about you buy me lunch first… then we'll talk."

Irene smiled. In one tap, she closed her phone, set it on the corner of the table. "Agreed."

* * *

><p>Sometime later, John called the group to order in the kitchen. There were two large pages pinned to the empty wall of the kitchen and John was busy briefing them all on the upcoming "mission."<p>

"You sure he was a doctor?" Sam murmured to Sherlock.

Sherlock just smiled.

"Now, as for who is going where," John continued, turning t face the others. "I thought it would be best to split up the Winchesters. That way each group has someone who has, in fact, dealt with demons before."

Sam and Dean looked at each other, but said nothing.

"Now, Dean stated earlier," John continued, "that he preferred not to go with the Doctor, which is fine. That puts Sam with the Doctor. However, considering that the Doctor will not be carrying any weaponry of any sort on his person, I thought it best that I accompany him and Sam. Provide additional support. That means Dean and Sherlock will be scouting the other location tog—"

"I have to go with him?" Dean suddenly barked.

Sherlock sighed. "The feeling is mutual."

John gave them both a look. "Listen, you both know your way around a gun, and you're both more than resourceful enough, alright? Besides, remember… this isn't an infiltration attempt, it's just scouting. If it looks like there's demons of any sort there, then we report back to the TARDIS. We'll decide what to do from there. So no heroics, and no doing anything rash and stupid. I mean it, Sherlock."

Sherlock snorted. "When have I ever done anything rash and stupid?"

John just sighed, but didn't press the issue. "Right, well. So long as everyone understands what we're doing, let's get to it."

The Doctor smiled. "Allons-y!"

* * *

><p>Dean and Sherlock both stepped out of the TARDIS and onto the gravel. Both watched as the TARDIS vanished in front of them with the sound both were becoming so very accustomed to. Dean took a deep breath, tucking his handgun into the back of his pants. "Okay, so this car park?"<p>

"One block from here," Sherlock said, pointing. "There. See?"

"Yeah, I see," Dean said, shouldering the duffle bag. He grabbed Sherlock's shoulder. "Hey, hey, whoa," he said. "Before we even get close to this place, I need to know you're going to follow my lead."

"So long as your lead is sensible," Sherlock said.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means," Sherlock drawled, "that from here I can spot two police cars and caution tape. Something's going on here. And we need to get inside."

"I thought we were just supposed to scout," Dean murmured. "That was the plan, right?"

"Tell me something, Dean," Sherlock said, checking the gun he'd concealed in the inner pocket of his coat, pulling back the slide and putting a round in the chamber. "How many times in your career have you actually known a plan to go as it was meant to? Let alone how many times you've actually followed the plan itself."

Dean's lips pursed. "What are you suggesting?"

Sherlock shrugged and put the gun back into his coat. "Not a thing, just… _scouting_."

Dean couldn't help but smile. "You know, in hindsight, it might not have been the best idea… the two of us going in together."

"A bit not, yeah," Sherlock agreed.

Dean gave a snort, and all at once, the two dissolved into soft laughter. "Okay, Sherly. Let's do this."

* * *

><p>The Doctor parked the TARDIS, then moved it when John pointed out how foolish the blue box looked parked on a meter, finally ending up parked somewhere behind a small construction site just beyond the carpark.<p>

"Looks abandoned," John said.

"All the more reason to be on our guard," Sam murmured.

"Yes well," the Doctor said, looking back at the TARDIS one last time. "Let's not be too jumpy, shall we?"

"What are we to expect?" John asked as they started toward the concrete building. "If there are demons, I mean?"

Sam began fumbling in the duffle bag that rested on his hip. "Well, first off…" He produced two plastic water bottles, tossing one to the Doctor—who caught it with one hand—and the other to John, who fumbled a moment before looking at it properly.

"Water bottle?" John asked.

"Holy water," Sam said. "It's like acid to demons. Oh, wait," he said as the Doctor gave him a look, "what I mean is… it doesn't actually burn them or melt their skin, it just… y'know… stings the demon. Look… there's no sure fire way to know what's human and what's demon unless you test it. So just…" He pantomimed dribbling water by accident. "If they're demons… run like hell. If they're fine, they'll just think you're awkward and weird."

"Right, because I don't get that enough," John mumbled. He nodded at Sam. "I'll take the east side of the building. You take the west. Doctor, you're with me. Let's make this quick."

"John," the Doctor scolded teasingly. "You almost sound like you don't trust Sherlock to stay out of trouble."

"That's because I don't trust him to stay out of trouble," John sighed.

* * *

><p>"Hold up a tick."<p>

"Something wrong, Officer?" Sherlock asked, both he and Dean stopping in front of the two police officers.

"I'm afraid we can't let you in here," the police man said. "The place is off-limits right now. Condemned."

"Which is exactly why we're here," Sherlock said, reaching into his pocket and producing a badge. "Inspector Doyle from Health and Safety. This is my assistant, Mr. Conan. We came to examine the gas mains."

The Officer looked at Dean, then back at Sherlock and the badge. "Sorry, Sir, but we weren't told to expect anyone."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Do you really want to call my superior? I promise you, he will be incensed. Moreso if these gas lines aren't properly dealt with in the next , oh…" He checked his watch. "Three hours. Tell me, do you want to explain why it is three city blocks erupted due to your apparent negligence? No? Then I'll be thanking you to stand aside and let us through."

The officer was moving before Sherlock had even finished his sentence. "Right, of course… don't want any trouble at all, just—what the hell?" The officer looked down at his shoes and pants, now drenched with the water Dean had spilled all over them.

Sherlock grabbed Dean and shoved him toward the carpark. "You'll forgive my assistant. Terribly clumsy. I'm always asking for a replacement, but budgets cuts and the like, you understand."

"Sure, fine, whatever, just…" The Officer gestured for them to just go.

"You both have a splendid afternoon," Sherlock said, giving a broad smile over his shoulder. The moment he turned around, the smile vanished. "Idiots."

Dean waiting until they were out of earshot, then asked, "where the hell'd you get that badge?"

"I didn't," Sherlock said, holding up the leather casing. "Psychic paper. Shows them whatever I want them to see."

Dean stared. "Isn't that the Doctor's?" His eyes went wide. "Holy sh—did you steal that from the Doctor?"

"He was being annoying," Sherlock said.

"Yeah, well…" Dean laughed. "Remind me never to get on your nerves."

"Too late for that," Sherlock said. "Unfortunately, there was nothing interesting on you at the time."

Dean blinked. "I don't know if I should be angry or impressed."

"So the officer," Sherlock said, staring straight forward. "I'm guessing his reaction to that splash of holy water means he checks out."

"Yeah, but I didn't get to check out the partner," Dean said. "Call me paranoid, but I'm going to be watching that one like a hawk."

"You'll do nothing of the sort," Sherlock said.

"Why not?"

"Please," Sherlock said, rolling his eyes. "If you're trying to be subtle and look like you're supposed to be somewhere, the last thing to do is to keep looking at people like you're suspicious."

"No shit, Sherlock," Dean snapped. "I'm not talking like, walking backwards and stare at him and make threatening gestures. I'm just saying he pops up in the building while we're searching, I'm going to play it safe and douse his ass with holy water." He gave Sherlock a sidelong glance. "You don't really think I'm that stupid, do you?"

Sherlock returned the glance with his own, a single eyebrow raised. "Are you asking my honest opinion, or is this rhetorical?"

"Shut up."

* * *

><p>"How's it look on your side?" John asked.<p>

"Totally clear," Sam sighed. "Not so much as a footprint."

"Nothing on our end either," John murmured, looking around the empty parking garage. "Don't think anyone's actually parked here in ages." He did a double-take over his shoulder. "What do you think, Doctor? Head back to the TARDIS? Regroup?" When the man didn't respond, John repeated, "Doctor?"

"Awfully tidy, this place," the Doctor murmured, walking along the wall that lined the middle of the structure.

"Yeah," Sam said with a little laugh, "well, it is abandoned."

"Nnno," the Doctor said, kicking at the wall with his foot. "No, abandoned places, that's where you find loads of glass bottles and garbage and rubbish just dumped there. Weeds should be all over the perimeter, did you notice? Not a one. That seem a bit strange to you?"

John and Sam exchanged a look. "But, um… we've already checked the place," John said flatly. "Perimeter, upper floors, the whole lot—"

"Not quite, I mean…" The Doctor shrugged, shoving aside a large sheet of plywood. "Most of it, but…" He pulled out his sonic screwdriver, pointed it at the steel girders that held up the mortar of the wall. There was a heavy clunk and the wall snapped back and slid to one side to reveal a long set of stairs leading downwards into the underground. The Doctor looked up at Sam and John, smiling like a fool. "Look'et that! More to go check! That's brilliant, that is." He started toward the stairway. "You coming along?"

"You sure that's a good idea?" Sam asked. "Maybe we should go back? Get Dean and Sherlock, before—"

"Oi!"

They all turned to see a police officer walking toward them, flashlight in hand.

"Oh, bollocks," John mumbled, making sure his jacket was pulled over the firearm in the waistband of his trousers.

"This here's private property!" the guard shouted. Walking toward Sam and John. "You're not allowed to be here!"

"Look, I'm just here because my neighbor's kid went missing," Sam said, motioning to John.

"Yeah," John said, picking up right where Sam left off. "He and the lads from school sometimes come around here, kick around a football and the like. We haven't seen him since he said he was staying at one of his friend's houses last night. So his mum and I rounded up a couple of the lads from the complex, and—"

The security guard was shaking his head. "Well, I'm going to have to ask you to leave—"

"Mind if we check the basement first?" the Doctor asked, jabbing his thumb at the stairs.

"Actually yeah, I do mind," the man snapped. "Now, you lot are going to come with me right now, or I—"

John had during the entire conversation, been sipping on his bottle of water, choosing that moment as the proper moment to accidentally fumble his bottle and splash it all over the officer. Before he could so much as mutter an apology, he was staring at something that should have been impossible.

The officer's eyes had gone black. Solid black. No white, no color, just dead, polished black. He was stumbling back, screaming. The water hissed as it made contact with his skin, curling up like thick tendrils of smoke into the air as the man clawed at his face. John nearly dropped the bottle onto the ground when Sam grabbed it, shaking the rest of the bottle at the man and shoving John toward the Doctor.

"_RUN! GO, GO!"_

Instinct took over. Years of military training and discipline and he was running, straight back toward the Doctor who was ushering them both towards the doorway. Sam's long legs carried him faster and he ducked into the stairwell just before John, the Doctor directly behind them.

John looked back only once to see the officer struggling to his feet, skin still smoking and his screams echoing in the carpark, overlapping until the overtones turned the sound to a monotone rumble. The Doctor shoved John out of the way, running to a panel on the wall and pointing his sonic screwdriver at it. "Come on, come on…"

The officer was on his feet again. There was a gun in his hands. A bullet ricocheted off the stairwell wall, sending both Sam and John to take cover.

"_Jesus!"_ John gasped.

Sam was breathing hard, dropping the bag to the ground and pulling out his shotgun. "Doctor!"

"Hang on! Hang on!" he shouted. "Almost got it!"

The officer was running now. Another shot, this time nailing the wall on the far end of the room.

"Doctor!" Sam roared.

"Almost…" The panel sparked. "GOT IT!"

The door gave the same clunk, sliding shut with a heavy thud.

John swore again, pressing both hands to his face as he collapsed against the wall, sliding to a heap on the floor.

The Doctor tossed the screwdriver into the air, watching it spin then letting it fall back into his hand, smiling. "Nothing to it." He gestured at the shotgun. "You can put that away now."

John peered out between his fingers, still shaking his head. As Sam stepped toward him, he glanced up at the tall man. "That was… h-he was a—"

"Demon," Sam murmured. "Yeah." He offered a hand to John, who stared at the ground a minute before taking Sam's hand and letting him pull him to his feet. "We need to get back to the TARDIS."

"Riiiight," the Doctor mumbled. "I, uh… may have sealed the entrance."

"You _may_ have?" Sam repeated.

"I'm not getting a signal down here," John said, mobile phone in hand as he held it up to the ceiling. He walked a circle around the room. "Guys, I'm not getting a signal—"

Sam stared at the Doctor. "Alright, fantastic," he grumbled. "So… what do we do n—"

"The only thing we can do, at this point," the Doctor said. "We keep going."

"Keep g…" Sam pointed at the door on the far end of the room. "There could be a whole mess of demons down there—"

"Kind of exciting, isn't it?" the Doctor grinned.

Sam blinked. "Uh, not really, no."

"Little exciting," John whispered in a slightly hysteric tone, but it didn't sound like he'd intended to voice the thought aloud.

"Right, maybe you guys aren't understanding the situation," Sam said, keeping his voice level.

"Nnno," the Doctor said. "No, understanding, just…" He pointed at the now-locked doorway. "No other options."

Sam let out a long sigh. He turned to John. "Anything?"

"Not a damn thing," John muttered, shoving the phone back in his pocket.

Sam looked back at the Doctor. "You do know anything could be down there waiting for us?"

"Oh yes," the Doctor beamed.

Sam ran both hands over his face. "Fine. _Fine_, we'll just… you first."

"Brilliant," the Doctor said, and all but ran toward the door.

John and Sam exchanged a look.

"I've got a bad feeling about this," John muttered.

Sam nodded, almost to himself. "You and me both," he said.

* * *

><p>Sherlock turned at the sound of footsteps. "Did you find anything?"<p>

"Bupkis," Dean said, shining the flashlight around the parking garage. "And I checked twice."

"I as well," Sherlock said.

"Think we got the short end of the stick here?"

Sherlock looked around the garage, the long shadows and dark halls of cement. "I worry that is the case, but…"

Dean frowned. "But what?"

Sherlock gave him a sidelong glance. "I can't shake that sensation that we are not alone here."

Dean smirked. "You getting jumpy, Sherly?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "And that, Dean Winchester, is why no one confides in you." Before Dean could respond, Sherlock was walking toward where they had come in. "Well, nothing to be done here. We'd best be back to the rendezvous spot."

The time for a snappy comeback had come and gone, so Dean just shuffled along after Sherlock. He might have poked fun at the detective, but he could feel it, too. That lurking like something was watching them, waiting for something. It was like he could feel a stare burrowing into the back of his head; feel something reaching for his throat with strong, cold hands. It was right behind him, nearly there now. Reaching. Fingers turned to sharp claws, moving to tear out his pulse, and—

Dean spun around, flashing the light at the empty nothing of the carpark. Only dust and silence stood behind him, an old candy wrapper flapping loudly, caught in the wind.

"Dean?"

He turned. "Yeah?"

Sherlock was staring at him. "I said, are you coming?"

Dean rubbed absently at his throat, glancing back one last time at the carpark. "Yeah… yeah, I'm coming." He followed Sherlock out of the carpark, only looking back once to shake his head and laugh. "You Brits have a seriously messed up sense of design."

"How so?"

"You don't think angels are a little much for a parking garage?"

"What angels?"

Dean turned, pointing. "The ones right…" He stared. Where there had just been a statue of an angel at the front and center of the carpark façade, now there was nothing. Dean's eyebrows went up. "Huh."

"What?"

Dean stared a moment longer then turned away with a shrug. "Must have been seeing things."

"Now who's the jumpy one?" Sherlock snerked.

"Cute," Dean muttered, smacking Sherlock's shoulder with his flashlight. "Look, let's just get back to the rendezvous. If we've got nothing on this end… I don't want to know what Sammy and the others are running into."

* * *

><p>"Clear."<p>

John sidestepped into the hallway behind Sam, gun in hand. He gestured toward the far wall of the corridor, and Sam nodded, pressing his back against the wall that bordered the other room and sliding until he was nearly to the doorway. John sidestepped again toward the doorway, gun raised as he entered the room. His gaze swept from corner-to-corner, up to the ceiling, then to the floor. He checked behind him, then murmured, "clear." Sam stepped up beside him, shotgun in his hands, the Doctor behind the two of them. John looked at Sam. "This is weird, don't you think?"

"We get jumped at the get-go, and then a big heaping pile of nothing?" Sam said. "Yeah. More than weird. More like a trap." Sam let out a sigh, lowering his shotgun. "Doctor, really?"

The Doctor had picked up a cell phone off of a table and had put on a pair of glasses to examine it. He pulled out his sonic screwdriver and pointed it at the mobile. All at once, the images and messages began to play rapidly on the screen. The Doctor stared at it unblinking, then held it up. "This is hers. The alien we're looking for, this is her phone."

"How can you tell?" John asked.

The Doctor held it up. "It's only been on for about two weeks, a few messages, pictures, a voicemail from an employer—"

"Is this one of the big players?" Sam asked. "One of the ones we're looking for."

The Doctor shook his head. "Dunno. Don't think so, I'm afraid. This doesn't seem to be the work of someone looking to cash in or further their plan. No, this seems more like she was trying to fit in."

"What? Assimilate?" John asked. "Just… become a human and pretend everything's just bonny?"

"Weeell, I wouldn't say that," the Doctor said, putting the mobile in his jacket pocket. "It's not easy being a human, let alone pretending to be one. There's a huge world that's really, awfully small, and then there's the corporate ladder—no one wants to be climbing on that set of monkey bars—and of course, all these emotions! And social taboos and—"

"I thought we were hunting dangerous criminals," Sam said.

The Doctor glanced up, pulling his glasses off. "First off, we're not _hunting_ anyone. We're _looking_ for them. Second off…" The Doctor shrugged. "Should be dangerous. Likely are, but…" He shook his head. "Justice isn't always just. How many times have you humans seen someone to the prisons who turned out to be innocent?" The Doctor smirked. "Humans certainly don't have a monopoly on corruption, Sam Winchester."

"You think she's still here?" John asked as the Doctor continued poking around at the various items on the table. "Maybe we're not finding anything because they've already moved on."

"And leave all this neat stuff behind?" the Doctor said, shaking the mobile phone at John. "No. No, whoever these demons are, they're a clever lot. Too clever to leave behind evidence. At least evidence like th… hello, what have we here?" Using his sonic screwdriver, the Doctor picked up a necklace. It was the same as the one Sam had seen him take from the other alien.

Sam's jaw dropped. "Oh! Oh, it's that thingy!"

"Yeah," the Doctor said, looking around the small room. "It is the thingy. But where's its owner?"

"If they took that necklace off her, they're bound to know she's not human," John said. "By now, they've probably figured out she must be alien."

The Doctor pushed his lower jaw forward with a sigh. "Oh, I think they knew in advance," he mumbled. "This is awfully clever. All of this. What do you think, Sam?"

"Beats me," said Sam. "What demons would want with an alien is beyond me."

John pulled a face, shrugging. "Maybe they're curious."

"I thought that," Sam said as he nodded. "But if it was just that, then… why all the precaution? Why the planned hit on the alien in her apartment?" He sighed. "I dunno… it's just really weirding me out. Whatever it is, you know it can't be good."

John nodded to himself. "Right… well… whatever the situation is, the plan stays the same. We find the fugitive, get them back to the Justicarn, and…" John stared behind him and Sam at the now-empty room. He frowned. "Doctor?" In the same moment, he was across the room, leaning into the hallway they'd come from. "Doctor?"

"You gotta be kidding me," Sam muttered, under his breath, then shouted, "Doc!" The word echoed down the halls they had yet to explore, the rooms beyond. "Dammit."

John was shaking his head as he pulled the gun from his trousers again. "Turn your back for two seconds…"

"It's like baby-sitting," Sam grumbled.

"No," John muttered, cocking the pistol. "It's like being with Sherlock."

* * *

><p>The Doctor had wandered down several different hallways now. It was very impressive; the place was a virtual maze of tunnels and rooms, but that didn't mean it was impossible to tell which paths were the one's typically taken, especially using the doojammerwhamickcron he'd nearly forgotten was in his pocket. He gave it a smack of his hand when the insides began whizzing around and flashing red. Another smack and it gave a happy ping and went back to working like normal.<p>

The Doctor did a double take before turning straight around, then back down another corridor. He shoved through a large pair of metal doors, striding straight into the massive industrial room. The dim florescent lights flickering down through the storage shelving made everything look ill. A red warning light near what looked to be a cargo truck loading bay was making the black puddles of runoff water look like blood.

"So, you found you way through the labyrinth. Though I have to say…"

The Doctor turned. A man stood on the upper catwalk, gnawing an olive he'd fished out of his martini with a toothpick. He was dressed in a well-cut black suit, cleanly shaven, and looking rather bemused. "I don't like trespassers."

The Doctor shrugged. "No, no… don't mind me. I'm just here to take a look around the place. It's very nice in that… menacing sort of way, if you like that sort of thing—sorry, where are my manners? Hello, I'm the Doctor!"

The man's eyebrows went up. "Is that so?"

"And you are?"

"Charmed, naturally," the man said, staring at his drink. "And very busy, so… if you don't mind?" He gestured. "The door is that way. I'm sure you can show yourself… and your, ah… guests, off the premise. Before things get nasty."

The Doctor clicked his tongue in his cheek. "Afraid I'm here for a bit more than the tour."

"Is that so?" the man said. "Well, considering my schedule, you'll have to make an appointment with my secretary."

"I think you'll want to hear me out," the Doctor said, any mirth in his tone gone.

The man smirked, taking one last swallow of his drink and setting the glass down on the metal girder of the catwalk. He smirked. "Actually, I'm absolutely certain I don't _care_, and even more certain that I've got more important places to be. Now, you want to reschedule your gloom and doom speech and threaten me…" He gestured at the man with a clipboard on the other end of the walkway. "Have Horace there take a note." He gave the Doctor a mock-salute. "Until next time, well…" He chuckled. "I say next time, but…" He smirked. "Let's hope for your sake we don't run into each other again, Doctor."

The Doctor's jaw set, but he said nothing as the black-suited man disappeared somewhere into the darkness of the room. In the same moment, the man who had been on the catwalk was standing right before the Doctor, checking off items from a list on his clipboard before removing his glasses, letting them dangle from the beaded chain. "The Doctor, was it?" he asked, offering his hand. "Horace. I keep our, ah… _organization_… organized."

"And what organization is that?" the Doctor asked, releasing the handshake.

"Hell," Horace said with a little smirk. "But you already know that, don't you?"

"Yeeeah." The Doctor cleared his throat. "I'm guessing you know why I'm here."

"Yes," Horace said, checking his clipboard. "Something to do with the… lizard-girl? Or at least that's our best guess."

"Where is she?" The Doctor's voice took on an icy quality. His eyes had gone dangerously narrow, and his hands, both in his pockets, were clenched to fists.

Horace sighed, checking his watch. "Right now?" He looked back up at the Doctor, his expression a blank. "She's on her way to somewhere much more secure than this place."

The Doctor stepped forward. "I'm only going to ask one more time—"

"Is that a threat, Doctor?" Horace asked, his tone short. "Because I have to tell you… our organization doesn't respond well to threats."

"Your _organization_ is in violation of the Shadow Proclamation—"

Horace made a face, flipping through the pages of notes, putting his glasses back on. "Yes, that's what she kept saying—"

"—and if you don't comply, well…" The Doctor gave the barest of smiles. "Let's just say I hope you comply."

Horace smiled, making a mark with his pen. "Noted." He pointed. "The exit's to the left, behind the oil drums as my superior indicated earlier." He turned and started away. "Enjoy the rest of your day, Doct—"

"You misunderstand me, Mister Horace," the Doctor said, standing his ground. "I'm not leaving without the prisoner—"

"No," Horace said, turning on the spot. "No, I think you misunderstand us… _Doctor_." He pulled the glasses off his face, eyes narrowing. "We're letting you go as a _courtesy_."

"Why?" the Doctor snapped.

Horace chuckled. "Because it's no good killing you now. Not without all our pieces on the board."

Silence hung in the air between them, the only sound was the occasional drip of water from a leak on the other side of the storage shelving.

Horace gave a little smirk and glanced down at his clipboard. "Remarkable, aren't they? Humans. You usually travel with one, don't you?"

"I don't think that's any of your business—"

"Information is my business," Horace snapped. "And as soon as we caught sight of that blue box, we had our best people doing research." He turned over a page. "You've had quite a few companions over the last few years. Some of them even still here in this dimension. It would be a shame, wouldn't it? If something were to happen to Donna Noble? Or her family—?"

"You so much as touch them, and I'll—"

"You'll what?" Horace snapped, dropping the pages back. "Come after us? Make us pay? That hardly sounds like you."

"You'd be awfully surprised the kinds of things I'm capable of."

"Likewise," Horace said flatly. "But I'll tell you something, Doctor… my people don't give warnings. And we don't give second chances." He inclined his head. "Good night, Doctor." He started away. He was nearly halfway to the other set of doors when he stopped, turned. "Remarkable thing, the human soul. Wouldn't you agree, Doctor?"

The Doctor said nothing.

"Brilliant, fearless, vibrant," Horace continued. "Very unique. Very valuable—"

"You are harvesting human souls," the Doctor said.

"Unfortunately, the market is determined by supply and demand," Horace said with a shrug. "And at the moment, we have a surplus of human souls. However…" Horace smirked. "These new souls? These things that have just… suddenly appeared on our world? Worth considerably more than the going rate of a human soul—"

"Tell me," the Doctor said. "Your boss… wouldn't happened to be named Crowley, would he?"

Horace smirked. "I can neither confirm or deny that," he said, eyes narrowing slightly. "But I have to ask… how do you know that name?"

"Friend of a friend of a friend," the Doctor said, his tone lighter, but his expression still deadly.

"Well, inform your friend that this friend of a friend's information is dated."

"Is that right?" the Doctor murmured. "You'll forgive me if I don't take your word for it."

"Demons aren't known for their forgiveness," Horace chuckled. "Now, if you'll excuse me… I have a 5:15 in China. You can see yourself out, and ah…" He gave the Doctor the barest of smiles. "Don't let us catch you on company property again. If we do, well… one of our creative team might have to come up with a little something for you."

"Doctor!"

The Doctor looked back at the bodiless voice shouting for him, then back at Horace. The demon merely smiled and without so much as another word, stepped into a shadow and was gone.

"Doctor!"

The Doctor's jaw relaxed for the first time since he'd stepped into the room, but he didn't feel any more at ease. He turned just in time to see John and Sam rushing toward him, guns drawn and eyes alert. John was the first one to speak.

"Are you alright?" he asked. "You're not hurt or—"

"We heard you talking to someone," Sam said. "Are they here, or—?"

"They were," the Doctor mumbled. "But they're long gone. Packed up and moved out."

Sam swore under his breath.

"How long did we miss them by?" John asked.

"Not sure," the Doctor said. "But I know one thing for certain. You were right, Sam."

John frowned, looking between the two. "Right about what?"

The Doctor sighed. "Whatever it is going on here… it's definitely about the souls."

Sam stared at the Doctor for a long moment, not saying anything. Finally, he nodded. "Come on. Let's get back to the others. The sooner we do, the sooner we can get some answers."

"Answers?" John asked with a bitter laugh. "Any chance of answers just loaded up a truck and left."

"Not quite," Sam said. "We…" Sam sighed. "Well, _Dean_ has someone who might be able to shed some light on the situation."

* * *

><p>The Doctor retrieved Sherlock and Dean from the empty carpark and, upon Sherlock's insistence that he needed to see the place that they'd tracked the demons to, brought them to the loading bay around back of the old abandoned warehouse. John tried to explain to a still skeptical Sherlock just what it was like to set one's eyes on a demon, but Sherlock decided their energy would be better spent looking around the loading bay for clues. In the meantime, the Doctor and Sam tried to sweet talk Dean.<p>

"Nuh-uh, out of the question," Dean snapped. "No way, not a chance in or out of hell."

Sam sighed. "Dean—"

"So we run into a handful of demons, so what?" Dean snapped. "It's not like we need Cas to come down here and deal with it!"

"It's bigger than that, Dean," Sam said.

Dean folded his arms across his chest. "Really? Because it sounds to me like we've got little or nothing to back up that theory. All we've got here is a couple of demons thinking they're good to call the shots and wanting to nom on a couple of souls to get some extra juice."

Sam shrugged. "Or we've got Crowley."

"What? No!" Dean turned to the Doctor. "Doc, you said you talked to them. Anyone of them say they worked for a Crowley? Or call himself Crowley?"

The Doctor sighed. "No, but—"

"See?" Dean said, looking at Sam. "So if we do this, if we call down Cas, it's not going to be over some guy he torched months ago."

"Fine by me," Sam said, holding up his hands. "Look, Dean, all I'm saying is that these demons have something… some sort of a way to harvest souls, even if they aren't human. If the angels have any idea what that something is… could give us the edge we need."

Dean gave his brother a long look, eyes narrowing. "You're gonna make me call him, aren't you?"

Sam nodded. "Oh yeah."

"Sorry," John said, walking up to the group. "Who are we calling?"

"The angel of Thursday," the Doctor said. "Sherlock!" he called. "Gather up. Time for evening prayers."

"Sorry, time for what?" Sherlock called from the other end of the room.

"We're phoning a friend," Dean explained as Sherlock trotted over to them. "A little backup from upstairs."

Sherlock stared at him. "You're joking."

Dean held his gaze. "Does it look like I'm joking?"

Sherlock looked from Dean, to John, to John's hand, outstretched to take Sherlock's. John's other hand was in the Doctor's, the Doctor's other hand in Dean's, so on and so on until Sam's hand was extended to Sherlock.

Sherlock let out a long sigh, grabbing John and Sam's hands with far more force than necessary. "This is _ridiculous_."

"Y'know, Doc," Dean mumbled, "we don't have to hold hands to pray."

The Doctor frowned. "Really? Isn't this how humans usually pray?"

Sam chuckled. "Not in our family."

"Yeah," Dean said, though he'd yet to let go of the hands he held to. "Usually it's a little something like this." Dean cleared his throat and bowed his head. "Hey, Cas. We, ah… need some imput from you and yours on a little demon problem, so if you could just shake your feathery tail feathers and get your ass down here, it would be much appreciated."

For a long while, no one moved. After a minute or so of silence, John opened his eyes. "Um… was something supposed to happen, or—?"

"Do you really talk to angels like that?" the Doctor asked, only one eye opened.

Dean frowned. "What do you mean?"

"Just…" The Doctor shrugged. "Seems a little, I dunno… _rude_."

Dean looked from John to the Doctor. "Wh… No! No, Cas is a friend, okay? It's not like I need to go dropping the "thee's" and "thou's" to get his attention, okay?"

"Yes, because acting like a complete arse clearly attracted this _angel's_ attention," Sherlock said with a roll of his eyes, dropping John and the Doctor's hands to fold his arms across his chest. "Now if we're done playing with the verbal Ouija board and pretending fairies exist, I've an investigation to follow up on." And with that, Sherlock turned on the spot and started back toward the loading bay.

"Yeah? Well screw you, too, Sherly!" Dean snapped.

"Dean," Sam said, giving his brother a look.

John looked worriedly from face to face. "You really think this is going to work? Getting in touch with your angel friend?"

Dean sighed. "God, I hope so," he murmured, closing his eyes and bowing his head again. "Cas…" His tone had changed this time, softer. Almost desperate. "Come on, buddy. Sam and I really stepped in it this time and we need a little backup. There's some seriously bad demons down here working some serious business. Something to do with souls, so if you could get your feathery ass down here, it'd be much appreciat—"

"What about the souls?"

Dean jumped nearly a foot, spinning around with a fist raised in defense. He stopped himself halfway through the gesture, making a face at the man now standing directly behind him. He wasn't as tall as Dean, nor as built, but the way he held himself made him seem larger than he stood. And, of course, the trench coat helped. He looked to be roughly the same age as Sam and Dean, but there was an oldness in his eyes. Also an innocence; something wide-eyed and confused in his expression, even as Dean looked ready to take a swing at him.

"Son of a bitch," Dean swore under his breath, dropping his hands to his side. "Cas, you gotta stop that."

The man standing close enough to Dean to make the entire group feel _uncomfortable_ merely turned his head to the side and frowned. "Stop what?"

Dean shook his head. "Y'know… never mind, just…" He nodded. "It's good to see you, Cas. It's been a while."

Castiel shouldered past Dean, nodding at Sam as he looked around the warehouse. "I have been busy." He turned back to the Winchesters. "You said there were demons."

"Yeah," Sam said. "They just left."

"But not without giving us some info," Dean said. "Info we're hoping you could shed a little light on."

"This is the angel?" John murmured. "A real honest-to-God angel? Really?"

"You don't sound impressed," Sam said as Castiel turned and looked at John.

John took a step back as Castiel stepped toward him, head turned to the side and examining John's eyes. John cleared his throat. "Sorry, I was just expecting more sound and fury and less… um…"

"I do not recognize these men," Castiel said, turning to examine the Doctor. "Are they hunters as well?"

"Not exactly," the Doctor said, holding out a hand and smiling. "I'm the Doctor."

Castiel stared at the hand held out to him. "A doctor of what?"

The Doctor made a face, thinking quite hard for a long moment. "Ummm… fun."

"He's a time traveler," Sam said.

"And a space traveler," Dean added. "Yeah, I know, right? Trust me when I say you wouldn't _believe_ the kind of weekend we've had so far."

"Which is kind of why we asked you here," Sam said.

Castiel stared at the two Winchester brothers a long while. "Tell me everything."

"So what do you think, Cas?"

Castiel was pacing, rubbing a hand over his mouth before turning back to the Doctor. "Did the demon have a name?"

"Horace," the Doctor said. "He called himself Horace."

"Name ring any bells?" Sam asked.

"Unfortunately," Castiel muttered. "If you buy into the theory that for each angel there is a demon counterpart, this Horace is to Hell what Balthazar is to Heaven."

"Oh, fantastic," Dean said, throwing his hands up. "So… we're dealing with an asshole, smart-ass who would sell his mom down river on a whim and make jokes about it for the rest of the month."

"You misunderstand me," Castiel said. "These counterparts, they are not identical. Where Balthazar is irreverent and fails to take anything seriously, Horace is the very definition of business."

"Sounds like the guy I talked to, yeah," the Doctor mumbled.

"Awesome, so…" Dean shrugged. "We're dealing with the Wall Street version of hell. Fantastic."

"But the souls," Castiel said. "He actually told you they were harvesting them?"

The Doctor nodded then stopped. "_Well_… I asked and he merely confirmed."

Castiel was shaking his head. "That is not possible. These… aliens as you call them. They are not souls designated to our Heaven and Hell. Killing them will merely send their soul back to their own places of afterlife."

"Sam seems to think there's a way," the Doctor said, gesturing at the younger Winchester.

Castiel turned his eyes on Sam, but said nothing.

Sam blinked. "Right, um… I was reading about them. There's not a word for them as a whole, but… they basically absorb souls. They're like… I don't know, vessel substitutes or extensions, I guess. Whoever is holding the object takes on the power of the souls this thing absorbs—"

"I know what you speak of, and it's not possible," Castiel said. "There are not many, there is only one."

"So what is it?" John asked.

Castiel shook his head. "It is not of import—"

"Well," Dean said, "considering that it's our only lead right now, Cas, you know what, it probably is."

Castiel gave Dean a hard look, shaking his head. "This item… It has been broken for many centuries and the pieces scattered. We have made certain that no one will be able to put it back together."

"Cas," Sam said, his voice soft. "You know what it is, right?"

"Yes."

"So tell us. Just hypothetically."

Castiel held Sam's gaze as long as he could manage. It was no more than a few seconds before he turned his eyes to the ground.

"Cas," Dean said. "Come on, man. It's not like anything you say is actually going to freak us out, alright?"

"I highly doubt that," Castiel said, turning his gaze to Dean.

John frowned at the angel. "Really, and why is that?"

Castiel took a deep breath. "Because if you are correct, there is only one object to have ever existed to hold that power."

"And what is that?" the Doctor asked.

Castiel looked from face to face, eyes resting on the Doctor. "The Spear of Destiny."

"Sorry, just… run that by me one more time," John said. "It's the actual Spear of Destiny? Like, _the_ Spear of Destiny?"

"That's not possible," Sherlock said flatly.

Castiel's gaze turned on Sherlock. "I assure you, it is very possible. And likely what we are dealing with."

Dean ran a hand over his mouth, shaking his head. "Son of a bitch."

"Sorry, hang on," the Doctor said, giving a little wave. "Sorry, I'm… not nearly as familiar. Spear of Destiny?"

"It's an artifact," Sam said quietly. "The spear that was used to pierce the side of Christ."

"But it's just a legend, isn't it?" Dean asked, stepping closer to Castiel. "I-I mean… there's like twenty different places that claim to have the spear. The Vatican, Poland, Vienna, a-and hell! Even Hitler was rumored to have it—"

"And if he did, it's underwater along with the U-534," Sam finished.

Castiel shook his head. "No, we recovered it at the end of the last World War—"

"Just a moment," Sherlock said, holding up a hand. "You mean to say Hitler actually had this relic? And that's what supposedly gave him his power?"

Castiel's clear gaze turned on the detective and he nodded. "Yes."

Sherlock gave a weak laugh, then looked at the others in the room. When it was clear everyone else was taking the situation far more seriously than he was, he sighed. "Oh, you must be joking, I can't be the only one here refusing to put such stock in foolish nonsense."

"Yeah, well, you're also the only one here who hasn't had face time with a demon," John muttered to his shoes, just loud enough for Sherlock to hear.

"Oh please," Sherlock said, rolling his eyes. "Next thing you know, you'll be telling me the hollow out near Baskerville had a rabid hellhound on the loose."

Sam's eyebrows went up and John shook his head, waving Sam off. "N-no, no, not…" He blinked. "Wait, are hellhounds real?"

"Just about everything you've ever heard of that goes bump in the night is real," Dean muttered. "But the good news is that we're pretty much schooled on how to get it to stop going bump. And on that note," he said, turning back to Castiel. "How do we stop this whole mess?"

Castiel's eyes narrowed. "I don't understand."

"The spear? How to we pull the plug on its magic juice?"

Castiel shook his head. "That is not possible."

Sam folded his arms across his chest. "What do you mean it's not possible?"

"It is a heavenly artifact," Castiel explained. "it perpetuates its own energy."

"Fan-fucking-tastic," Dean grumbled. "If it's such a bitch, why the hell'd you guys let it out of your sight?"

"It was not intentional," Castiel said. His tone didn't change, but something in the way he'd said the words showed his frustration. "We believed we had removed it from the realm entirely."

"Your boy Balthazar hawking items on the black market again?" Dean asked.

Castiel's irritation with Dean only became more apparent. "No. Balthazar may be foolish at times… but he isn't so foolish as to sell something so dangerous."

"So how is it here, then?" John asked. "I-I mean, I'm going to guess that it would be rather difficult for demons to sneak into heaven and… I dunno, break into an ivory vault."

"It should be impossible."

"And yet here we are," Sherlock drawled, rolling his eyes again.

Sam sighed. "Look, Cas… we need to know what the situation on this spear is. Any info you could get us would be appreciated."

Castiel nodded. "I… will speak with a few angels. Perhaps one of them knows something of import."

Dean clapped a hand on the angel's shoulder. "Thanks, Cas." He hesitated a moment, kept his hand on Castiel's shoulder and murmured, "come back quick, okay? If this thing is for real, then… we might be in over our heads." He shrugged. "It would be nice to have your help."

Castiel held Dean's gaze a long moment, looked at the hand on his shoulder, then back to Dean. Something in his eyes softened, and he nodded. "Of course. I will do whatever I am able."

"Thanks."

And before any of the group could so much as blink, Castiel was gone.

It was Sherlock's turn to look startled as he stared at the empty space. He looked at the floor, at the ceiling, the windows that lined the walls. His gaze found John's, who was smirking and looking quite proud. "Yeah, I know, right?"

"But that's—"

"You can have your meltdown when we get back to the TARDIS," Dean sighed. He turned to look at the group, face drawn. "But for right now, I have to say… we're in trouble."

"What do you mean?" Sam asked.

Dean lifted his arms. "If you didn't notice, we're kind of at a dead end here, Sammy—"

An overly cheery electronic version of Vivaldi's Spring started echoing in the empty warehouse and John swore. "Sorry, sorry, let me just…" He frowned at the screen and excused himself. "Hello? …really?" John stepped away from the group and continued speaking.

"Sherlock probably picked something up from the loading bay," Sam said as if they hadn't been interrupted.

Sherlock sighed. "Yes and no. They were entirely more thorough at covering their tracks this time round. We'll be lucky to find a trail at all, I'm afraid."

"And it's not like these demons are going to be in any hurry to run into us again," Dean said. "Dammit."

John walked back toward the group, tapping his cellphone on his open palm. "I've got something. Lestrade called."

"How is that something?" Sherlock asked.

"Well, not something related, but at least something to bide our time until we hear back from Castiel."

"What, like a case?" Dean asked.

"Yes, apparently," John said. "He sent me the details. I guess the girl was in her teens when her parents were killed in a car accident. The brake line had been cut. There was no way to link her to it, but there had been some suspicion that she, ah… helped them along."

"Charming girl," the Doctor muttered.

"Oh, it gets better," John chuckled. "She used the family money to finance trips all over the world, buying aliases and the like. A few years back, she was caught on film when she snatched up some gems and fled the country. They've been looking for her for years. Looks like she's back." John frowned. "Hold on, he's sending a picture." Sam and the Doctor both perched on John's shoulders, waiting for the picture to download.

"This broad got a name?" Dean asked.

"Abigail. Abigail Kelley," John said.

Sherlock blinked. "Daughter of Edward and Laura Kelley? _The_ Kelley's?"

"That's the one, yeah," John muttered. His phone pinged and the picture came up. "There she is."

Sam went white. "No way."

"What?" Dean asked.

Sam was still shaking his head. "That's not… it can't…"

"What, Sam?"

Sam snatched the phone out of John's hands ("Oi! Be careful with that!") and walked over to Dean, thrusting the screen in his brother's face.

Dean stared a long moment before reaching up to grab the phone. "Holy shit."

Sam was nodding. "_Yeah_."

"Friend of yours?" the Doctor asked.

Dean shook his head. "Not even close."

"Sorry, how do you know her?" John asked.

"She worked stateside for her little scams," Sam said. "You could say her business runs right alongside our line of work."

"Yeah, but in the opposite direction," Dean snapped. "Bitch is a lying thief. And there's no way that can be her."

"Why not?" the Doctor asked.

Dean gave him a look before tossing John his phone. "Because Bela Talbot died. Four years ago."

Sherlock's mouth twitched into a grin. "Call Lestrade, John. Tell him we'll take the case. And tell him the Federal Agents will be returning as well."

"What are you so smiley about?" Dean asked as Sherlock turned up his collar.

He smirked at the other man. "Because, Dean Winchester, the game is afoot."

* * *

><p>Horace looked up from his clipboard, frowning. The room, which had until that moment smelled like nothing, now smelled like soap and brimstone. He turned to see two men standing just behind him, one wearing a trenchcoat and looking remarkably pensive for someone so unkempt; the other in a green and blue sweater vest, pushing a pair of half-moon spectacles back up his nose. Horace gave them a weary smile, eyes flashing solid black. "I thought I smelled righteousness."<p>

"We want a name," Castiel said.

Horace made a face and looked back at his clipboard. "Well, I've plenty of names. I'm going to need a little more than that."

"Someone ordered the interference with the new life forms," Castiel said, eyes narrowing as he took a step forward. "They're using them to harvest souls—"

"Now who could have told you that?" Horace asked, pulling his glasses off. His eyes searched Castiel's for a long while, then he chuckled. "Oh, of course… the pets. Don't tell me you're expanding your collection to include their new friends—?"

"Castiel," the other angel murmured, grabbing at the elbow of the man's trenchcoat as he tried to step forward. The angel's clear blue gaze found Horace's. "A name, Horace. We'd just like to know where the orders are coming from. If it's from the t…" He blinked. "Oh dear, would it be considered the top, or the bottom? The very bottom? How is your chain of command organized?"

Horace rolled his eyes. "It comes from an authority."

"Which authority?" Castiel asked.

Horace smirked, almost cat-like. "Mister Fahrenheit."

Castiel shook his head. "There is no such demon with that name—"

"It's a reference to a Queen song," the other angel murmured, still gripping Castiel's arm. "It's him."

"Tell him we want to talk to him," Castiel said.

Horace didn't so much as glance down at his notes as he chuckled. "I'm afraid that's not possible. He's booked until the end of the week."

"Tell him I want to talk to him," the other angel said, his voice gone soft.

Horace sneered. "Business before pleasure is the boss's new rule. And that even applies for his favorite feathered whore—"

Horace's body hit the wall with a crunch, plaster and the ribs of his vessel cracking from the impact. Castiel tightened his outstretched hand to a fist and Horace coughed. A mouthful of blood began dribbling down his chin.

"Castiel!" the other angel gasped. "Let him go!"

Castiel looked back at the angel, his face still drawn in tight, angry lines. He held his brother's gaze as long as he dared before releasing his closed fist.

Horace took in a long wheeze, falling to his hands and knees and coughing up more blood. He looked up, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "I should peel the flesh off your cheekbones, you ill-bred—"

"Just tell Crowley we dropped by, will you?" the angel murmured, already putting an arm around his brother's shoulders and dragging him away from the other angel. They were no more than a few steps out of earshot when he continued, "you didn't need to do that."

"He did not need to call you such things," Castiel said.

The other angel gave him a sad smile. He shrugged and looked at his shoes. "Thank you, but… it is not necessary for you to feel that way."

"Do you think he will get in touch with you?" Castiel asked.

The angel shrugged. "It's hard to say. Ten years ago, I'd have said yes. Twenty years ago, he'd already have his car outside, waiting to pick me up. But now…?" He swallowed. "Castiel, he's not the same Crowley I once knew."

"He's a demon."

The other angel was still smiling, a distant sadness in his eyes. "He was a friend. More than a friend." He sighed. "I do worry for him." When his brother didn't say anything, he added, "are my feelings of concern any different from your worries for the Winchester brothers? For Dean?"

Castiel let out a deep breath. "No… no, I suppose they are not." They stopped at the doubledoors near the outside of the warehouse. "You will tell me if he contacts you?"

"Of course," the angel said, wrapping a scarf several times around his neck.

"Find out what he's planning, then report back to me," Castiel said. "He's playing awfully… what's that turn of phrase?"

"Fast and loose," the angel murmured, a ghost of a smile lighting up the sadness on his face. "Yes, that is quite like him." He nodded. "Take care of yourself. And do your best to keep your friends out of the line of fire?" He made a face. "We're all playing at a rather dangerous game. We've been lucky enough to keep out casualties thus far."

"There will be no casualties," Castiel murmured.

"This is war, Castiel," the angel said. "There's bound to be casualties. Just make certain they aren't those you can for most." He sighed, giving a final nod. "Be safe, Cas."

"You as well, Aziraphale."

And in that same moment, the two angels were gone.


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: Current updates at .com

"Pulled up the records for Abigail Kelley and Bela Talbot," Lestrade said, fingering through the pages of the two file folders. "Looks like you American boys were right. Talbot is an alias. There's about four or five other aliases we've got on her as well. Donavan is compiling those right now."

Sam had accompanied Sherlock to the Scotland Yard office, leaving the others to discuss the next course of action while they took the case. The younger Winchester was now dressed in a fine business suit and looking far more the part than he had earlier. He held out a hand to Lestrade, indicating the folders. "Would you mind if I, ah…?"

Lestrade pushed them toward Sam with a shrug. "No, not at all. Help yourself."

"So, this… Talbot woman," Sherlock said, steepling his fingers together in his lap. "What's she wanted for?"

"Robbery, burglary, smuggling, just about everything on that end of the charts," Lestrade said. "But we've only got her tied to the one case. There's about a dozen others we suspected her on, but… nothing was ever able to be proved. Weird stuff she goes after, though," Lestrade said, scratching under his chin. "The gems were the biggest snatch we got her on. Everything else is… well, antiques, but not super-valuable stuff. There'd be a roomful of heirlooms and jewels, and she'd take the old tapestry and leave the rest. Ming vase and she'd take the little wooden carving of a dragon." Lestrade shrugged. "Weird, her MO. Almost non-existent. Y'never know what she's going to be aiming for."

"These pictures," Sam murmured, tapping the small prints at the top of the page. "When were they taken?"

"Yesterday," Lestrade said, "well, the top two were, but the one underneath it's from two days ago. She's been frequenting the place."

"The place being?" Sherlock asked.

"The Museum of London," Lestrade sighed. "Definitely looks like she's casing the place out. Has an accomplice, it looks like. Another woman, but…" He shrugged. "We haven't been able to get a clear shot of her. Hang on… may I?" He leaned over his desk and took one of the pictures from where it had been paper clipped onto the edge of the folder. "Here. The one we got that wasn't blurred to bits."

Sherlock took the photo and examined it. Sam glanced over at him, asked, "anything useful?"

Sherlock pursed his lips and slid it back over to Lestrade. "Not a thing."

"Well that's unfortunate," Lestrade sighed. "Now… if you're going to try and track this woman down, for the love of God, Sherlock, don't get involved in a chase. That's always how she gets away, alright? She runs off, and we lose her for years. We've got her this time, so… just don't let her run off." Sherlock smirked, rising from his seat. Lestrade practically jumped to his feet, rushing to cut the man off before he could reach the door. "Sherlock, I'm serious. This is a big case. Orders come from way up." He gave Sherlock a hard look. "Way… way, way up."

Sherlock stared at Lestrade a long moment, eyes narrowing as he leaned back. "High up, you don't mean…?"

Lestrade gave him an awkward shrug.

Sherlock let out a breath through his teeth. "So why send you to give me the job?"

"Because you wouldn't take it if he gave it to you," Lestrade said.

"Sorry, am I missing something here?" Sam asked.

"No," Sherlock snapped at the same moment that Lestrade said, "Yes. Maybe. It's his brother."

Sam made a face, smirked. "You have a younger brother?"

"I have no such thing."

"O_lder_ brother," Lestrade said, giving Sherlock the same look he'd been giving him for the last minute. "Government official, look, this doesn't change anything, Sherlock, it's still a case and I still need your help. So don't be like this."

"Be like what?" Sherlock asked, rolling his eyes.

"Be like…" Lestrade made a face, finally bursting out. "You!" he snapped. "Okay? Don't be you! Just…" He ran a hand over his face. "Look, just treat it like a case? A normal case without Mycroft's involvement. A-and don't botch it up, okay?"

Sherlock was gnawing on the inside of his cheek, mouth gone small. He smiled at Lestrade, though it was more of a grimace. "Understood," he muttered.

Lestrade looked from Sherlock to Sam then back to Sherlock. "Right. Thank you." He pointed. "Stop by Donavan's desk, she should have copies of the files on Talbot for you. Keep me posted."

Sherlock pulled a face at Lestrade's back then stalked off into the office.

Sam smirked. "I should have pegged you for a youngest sibling."

Sherlock seemed to ignore the comment, and went straight through the maze of cubicles. He rapped his knuckles on the top of the one marked "Donavan."

Donavan spun in her chair. "_Freak."_

"_Donavan_," Sherlock said, putting on his best feigned smile. "Always such a joy."

"And the Federal Agent," Sally said, standing. "Have to say, you clean up nice."

Sam blinked. "Oh, uh… thanks."

"I'm guess you're here for these." She held up two large manila envelopes.

Before she could say another word, Sherlock leaned over the cubicle wall and tugged them out of her hands. "Thank you. Shall we be on our way, Agent?"

Sam gave a laugh of surprise, watching Sherlock tuck the folders under his arm and leave toward the lift without so much as a backwards glance. "Wow, yeah… sorry about that," he said to Donavan. "He's just—"

"Oh, trust me," Donavan muttered. "I know exactly what Sherlock Holmes is. Oh, hold on a minute. One more thing. Just in." She handed him an envelope. "Two more pictures of our bird and her accomplice. Not any better, but…" She shrugged. "Maybe you boys can make something out of it."

Sam took the envelope, smiled. "Thanks Sergeant Donavan."

"Please, call me Sally," she said. She gave him a once over, smiling to herself as she took her seat again. "You have a nice day, Agent."

"Sam," he murmured.

Donavan grinned. "Agent Sam."

He smiled. "Right. I'm going to, uh…" He chuckled. "Until next time."

"Looking forward to it."

Sam walked straight out of the office toward the lift, looking for Sherlock. He nearly jumped out of his skin when Sherlock appeared, seemingly out of nowhere, behind him, texting and speaking at the same time. "That was interesting."

"What was?"

Sherlock looked up from the text, nose wrinkled. "Were you… flirting? With Donavan?"

"Wh...? No! Wh-what makes you—what? Because she wants me to call her by her first name? No! I'm not…" He cleared his throat. "Who are you texting?"

"My brother." Sherlock's voice was more like a growl, his jaw set as he pounded out the words on the phone's keyboard with far more force than typically required.

Sam watched him for a moment then smirked, tapping one of the buttons for the elevator. He gave Sherlock a sidelong look. "So… you and your brother?"

"What of us?"

"I take it you don't get along too well."

Sherlock snorted. "Understatement."

"What exactly does he do? Lestrade said government—?"

"He _is_ the British Government."

"Never heard of him."

"That that means he is doing his job correctly."

"So you and he don't—"

"Samuel?"

"Yeah?"

"Let's skip the _bonding_ over familial similarities and focus on the task at hand, hmm?" Sherlock gave Sam a dry smirk then stepped into the elevator.

Sam scoffed, almost to himself. It was a good thing he'd offered to come along instead of Dean. He wasn't sure if his brother would have made it so far without having strangled the man.

* * *

><p>Bela looked up from where she was lounging on a long, pale chaise in the sun room. Kate had just brought in a platter of finger foods when Irene walked into the room. As usual, she was busy typing away on her phone. Bela sat up, turned down the book she'd been reading and frowned. "Something wrong?"<p>

Irene glanced at Bela then smiled. "Mm, quite the opposite. Just got a text from our employers. Well… I say _our_…" She draped herself onto the chaise beside Bela and held the phone for the other woman to see. "I've been told their men encountered a bit of resistance yesterday. The man in charge of the operation wants you to confirm a few faces for him."

Bela stared at the screen a moment before grabbing the phone out of Irene's hands and standing. "_No_." She began pacing the length of the room, staring at the picture.

Irene watched in silence for a moment, then smirked. "Bela, darling?"

"Mm?"

"You're going to _ruin_ your nails if you keep chewing on them."

Bela glanced down at her hand, then sighed, tucking it behind her back as she skimmed through the photos from the blocked number.

Irene raised a perfect eyebrow, stretching herself long on the chaise. "Friends of yours?"

Bela chuckled and resisted the urge to turn her thumbnail between her teeth. "Hardly. I don't know how to define our relationship." She sighed. "I suppose they'd call it 'enemies.'"

Irene made a dramatic pouty expression. "Tragedy. So you know them?"

Bela glanced at Irene, held out the phone to the other woman. "Text your contact. Tell them that, yes… that is Sam Winchester. As for the other two, I don't recognize them."

"I recognize one," Irene said, tapping through the photos. "John Watson. And if he's there, you can be certain Sherlock Holmes is involved."

Bela chuckled. "Well, then you may want to amend my message. The chances of Sam Winchester journeying all the way here without his idiot brother in tow? Slim to none."

"Which just leaves the tall drink of water," Irene purred. "Not usually my field of interest, but… there's something about those tall, skinny enigma-types, isn't there?"

"If you say so," Bela said. "I prefer a little more… _substance_ to a man."

Irene chuckled. "_When_ you prefer a man, you mean."

Bela smiled and sat down on the chaise next to Irene, leaning to get a better view of the cellphone screen. "A little too convenient, isn't it?"

"What is?" Irene asked, already busy typing away on the phone.

"This?" Bela said. "Two of your acquaintances. Two of mine. And then our, ah… pinstriped wild card." She looked directly at Irene, waited for the other woman to look her in the eye. "What I mean to say is… it seems awfully suspicious? The opening line to a bad joke… Or a _trap_."

"My, my," Irene said, turning down her phone on her shoulder. "Do you not trust your employer, Miss Talbot—?"

"Do you trust yours?" Bela asked.

Irene held Bela's gaze a long moment before looking away with a sigh. "No… no, I suppose I don't. Then again, I make it a point not to trust anyone."

"Smart."

"_Safe_," Irene said with a sharp look at Bela. "It's what's kept me alive."

"It's a good rule to live by, then."

"Bela," Irene said, reaching up and gently guiding Bela's chin until they were face to face again. "You forget… no matter what these boys think they're getting into, there is one thing that they are not expecting. And that thing… is us." Irene smiled. "And we give as good as we get."

"Mm," Bela chuckled. "We give _better_."

"So," Irene said, sending off her message and snapping her phone shut. She leaned back on the chaise, smiling. "Tell me about these… Winchester boys."

Bela sighed. "Well… the younger one. Sam. He's dangerous. Brains and brawn in equal portions."

Irene smirked. "A rare breed. And the older brother?"

"Dean." Bela's eyes narrowed. "Dean is… well, not nearly so intelligent as his brother, however…" She held up a finger, smirking. "What he lacks in smarts, he makes up for in looks. And smarts or no… he is _not_ to be underestimated."

* * *

><p>The Doctor was rocking back and forth on his feet. He clicked his tongue in his cheek. "Well, color me impressed."<p>

John rubbed a hand over his face, staring at what—up until twenty minutes ago—had been the stove. "Explain it to me again."

"Oh, come on," Dean groaned. "It was an accident, okay?"

"An _accident_?" John said, giving the other man a sidelong glare. "How is _that_ an accident?"

Dean gestured, made a few desperate attempts at words, then gave up. "Look, I… I was trying to cook—"

"And you destroyed the stove top instead?" John shouted. "How in the hell did you manage to—I-I can't. I can't, I really… how does one _break_ the stove? Really?"

"Maybe you aren't aware of this, Johnny-Boy, but I haven't exactly spent my life perfecting my home skills," Dean snapped. "I'm new to this whole 'cooking' thing—"

"_You were heating a can of soup!"_

"Yoo-hoo! Delivery!" A little sing-song voice and a knock came from the doorway to the flat. "Everything alright up here, lovies?"

John was the first out of the kitchen. "Yes! Yes, Missus Hudson, everything is absolutely alright, just—"

Mrs. Hudson continued as though John hadn't spoken, trying to push past him into the flat. "I brought a few things for you and Sherlock. I know you have visitors and he's never been very good at keeping the fridge stocked, so I picked up a few extra things. Then I thought I heard shouting and…" She sniffed. "Is something burning?"

The Doctor looked at Dean and smirked. "Just Dean's eyebrows."

Dean's eyes narrowed as he felt to make sure his facial hair was still intact. "Shut up." But he ducked toward the mirror to double-check.

"Missus Hudson," John said as the landlady wiggled her way into the flat, carrying the plastic bags into the kitchen. "Really, we've got it under control here, we—"

There was a shriek and she dropped the bags to the floor. "What have you done to my stove?"

John watched her fuss about the stove a moment more before he cleared his throat. "Dean broke it."

Dean turned from the mirror in the front room, arms falling to his sides with a loud clap. "_Thanks."_

Mrs. Hudson kept shaking her head. "I don't understand, how did he—?"

"Yeah, we don't understand either," John said, taking her by the shoulders and starting to guide her from the flat. "So, thank you for the groceries, but we've got some repair work to do—"

"Shall I call someone to look at it?" she asked.

"If you wouldn't mind, that would be—"

"No, no no, no," the Doctor said, shaking his head. "Not to worry at all. I'm rather handy, myself. I can get this taken care of in, oh… an hour or two."

Both John and Mrs. Hudson were staring at him. John's eyebrows came together. "Really?"

The Doctor nodded. "Really."

Mrs. Hudson gave a little sigh, patting John's chest. "Just make sure you boys are being careful, you understand?"

"Yes, ma'am, I understand," John said, smiling. "If we've any trouble, we'll let you know—"

"But don't just call me for any old reason, love. I'm not your housekeeper."

John smiled, let out a breathless laugh. "Yes. Alright, mum. We'll be good."

Her voice kept ringing up the stairway. "But let me know if you'll be needing supper tonight. Don't want you boys to starve because of a broken stove!"

Dean's leaned past John to ask, "can you make pie?"

A head poked around the banister. "Not your housekeeper."

John made a face at Dean, to which the elder Winchester just frowned. "What—?"

The head poked back around the banister. "Apple or peach, dear? That's all the fruit I have."

Dean's eyes lit up. "Apple! With that, uh… crunchy stuff—"

"Streusel?" John asked, frowning.

"Yeeeeah!"

John sighed. "Mrs. Hudson, you don't have t—"

"Just this once," she responded, shaking a finger at him and disappearing into her flat below.

Dean was smiling, nodding at John. John didn't return the smile, just stared at him in silent disapproval. Dean's smile vanished. "What?"

No one noticed the man in the trenchcoat that had just appeared in the middle of the room. "I come with news—"

"_Damn_!" John swore, putting a hand to his chest. He looked around the room, eyes gone wide, then realized the angel wouldn't have used _any_ of the doors or windows.

Castiel stared at John. "My apologies. I did not intend to startle you."

"Is he always like that?" John asked Dean quietly. "Just… there?"

"Pretty much, yeah," Dean muttered. "Usually he shows up right behind me, so…" He sighed. "This is a welcome change." He nodded at Castiel. "Surprised you didn't call to find out where I'd be." He blinked. "How did you find out where I'd be?"

"I did not look for you," Castiel said. "I hoped you would still be with your companions. As you were not with the dark-haired one, I was hoping you'd be with the short one."

"Excuse me?" John said, folding his arms across his chest.

"Dude, don't get snappy," Dean said. "Everyone's short next to Sam."

John nodded, giving a little shrug, then suddenly frowning. "Hang on, you've been tracking us? _Me?_"

"Yes."

"What? Why not them?"

"Because I've got some rocking tattoos on my bones," Dean muttered. When John stared at him, Dean pressed a hand to his chest. "Angel proofing; Enochian on my ribs. He can't see me."

"Why would you want to hide from an angel?" John asked.

Dean sighed. "Because ninety-percent of angels are dicks."

"Wait, wait, hold on a moment," John said, turning to Castiel. "You can track anyone? _Anyone_, so long as they don't have this… angel-proofing?"

"Yes," Castiel replied.

John looked between the angel and Dean, eyes resting on Dean as he gestured. "Then why the hell are we out _looking_ for these aliens and not just having your friend tell us where they are?"

Dean blinked. "Um… w-well, because… uh—"

"Because it doesn't work that way," Castiel said. "They are not of this sphere, therefore, they are unknown to me."

John frowned. "So… you're an angel, but… only for this planet?"

"Only for this _plane_," Castiel said. He looked at the floor and sighed. "It is… very complex."

Dean held up a hand. "Wait, so when you're in…" He waved his hands around. "Angel-Cerebro, you can't see the Doctor?"

"I don't understand that reference."

"Sorry," the Doctor said, popping out of the kitchen and wiping his hands on his trousers. "What's that?"

"You can see me," John said. "And you can see everyone, every_thing_ else when you're looking for us using… whatever angels use—"

Castiel nodded. "My mind's eye."

"Your mind's eye, alright," John murmured. "So you can see us… but you can't see the _aliens."_

"Which means you didn't know I was here," the Doctor finished, looking at Castiel.

"No," Castiel said, glancing at the man now covered in soot and smelling like burnt toast. "I did not." He looked at John. "That is why I looked for you, John Hamish Watson. If Dean was not with his brother and Sherlock Holmes, there was a good chance he was with you."

The corner of Dean's mouth pulled into a smirk. "Hamish?"

"It's a popular name," John muttered. "A good name."

"Hamish?"

The Doctor gave Dean a look. "_Dean_."

"But you," Castiel said turning to face the Doctor. "You are hidden from me. May I ask where you are from?"

The Doctor's expression faded a little. "Far away."

"In place and time," Castiel said. "But that is no answer."

The Doctor held Castiel's look for a long while, then folded his arms across his chest. "Gallifrey."

Castiel's head turned to the side. "It is beyond our plane, but not beyond my knowing. You have my condolences."

The Doctor inclined his head. "Thank you."

"It must have been difficult," Castiel said. "Losing so much…"

"Condolences?" Dean interrupted, looking between the two. "For what?"

"If it's all the same," the Doctor said, holding Castiel's gaze without blinking. "I'd rather not discuss it."

Castiel looked at the floor. "My apologies. I should not have brought it up."

"No, you shouldn't have," the Doctor mumbled, almost entirely to himself, then turned back to his work in the kitchen.

Dean walked toward Cas, lowering his voice to ask, "the hell was that about?"

"It doesn't matter," Castiel said. "I come with news."

"News?" John asked. "What sort of news?"

"A lead," Castiel said.

Dean frowned. "On?"

The angel held up a sheet of paper. "The spear. It was in our custody but not for long, even by human standards. It was determined that it could not be held by any sphere."

"So where is it?" Dean asked.

"Shattered," Castiel said. "Broken and scattered. But present." He handed the paper to Dean who opened and began reading it as Castiel continued. "At the end of the last 'World War,' the spear was brought here by the faction you call, 'The Allies.' The Americans offered to take it for safe keeping. We intervened." Castiel walked the length of the room, staring out the windows. "There was a fire in the warehouse they kept it in. Balthazar and his regiment took the item, and, as commanded by authorities, broke it into three pieces. One of the pieces remained in the warehouse, was discovered and later transported by the Americans to a confidential warehouse in Chicago."

"And the other pieces?" Dean asked.

"Like I said," Castiel murmured. "Scattered. Over the entire spanse of this land."

"You mean Britain?" John asked. "Were they ever found?"

"Yes," Castiel said as he turned from the window. "And that is where things become… complicated."

Dean frowned. "Complicated how?"

"Both pieces were recovered,"Castiel said. "But by different parties. Neither of them knew what they had. The first piece was found and sold to a museum here in London."

Dean frowned. "And the second?"

"In the hands of a private collector also here on this island," Castiel said. "We are working to find him as we speak."

"But the piece in Chicago," Dean asked. "It's still there, right?"

Castiel sighed. "No. It is not."

"Son of a bitch," Dean muttered. "So these demons have it?"

"If they do, it is nothing to be concerned about," Castiel said. "Unless all three pieces are reassembled, the weapon is useless."

"So the one piece we have a lead on?" John asked. "The museum? Is it there?"

"It is," Castiel said. "But I do not know where."

"Would you know it if you saw it?" Dean asked.

Castiel nodded. "Of course."

"Great. We'll take a field trip. Grab your nice overcoat and let's go."

Castiel's eye twitched and he stepped toward Dean. "I am occupied, Dean."

Dean stared at him. "Really? Saving the world from World War Three doesn't strike you as important—"

"There will be no world to have a third war if Raphael wins," Castiel said, his tone taking on an edge. "I must return."

"Then how the hell will we know which is the right piece, Cas?" Dean snapped. "Now, I don't know if you've ever been in a museum in your life, but there's a shit load of arrow heads and metal pieces and the like. I don't think it's going to be in a nice case with a neon sign that says, "Spear of Destiny" on it."

Castiel held Dean's gaze for a long while. His jaw clenched and he stared at his feet. Finally, he looked back up. "I will return this evening. But we will need to be quick."

Dean was still staring at Castiel with the same intensity as before. Relief sagged his shoulders and he nodded. "Thanks, Cas. I mean it."

Before another word could be said, Castiel was gone.

"Sorry, hold on," John murmured, "are we breaking into the Museum of London with an _angel_?"

"We're also stealing," Dean added with a smirk.

John sighed. "Wonderful."

"Hey," Sam said, walking through the door with Sherlock in tow. "Got the info on Bela."

"And we got info on the spear," Dean said, nodding. "You first."

"Okay, so…" He shook his head. "It's definitely Bela. I mean, the photos are… unmistakable."

"So how the hell did she get back?" Dean asked.

"I dunno, Dean. Right now, that's not important. What is important is that we found out where Bela's been casing her next heist."

"And?" Dean asked.

"The London Museum," Sherlock said, holding a file out to Dean. "Apparently spending all her time near some recently unearthed artifacts; dated Early Judeo-Christian Rome, but found _here_."

Dean looked from Sam to Sherlock then back. "You gotta be kidding me."

"What?" Sam asked.

"You think it's coincidence?" John asked Dean, who was already shaking his head.

"I think if Bela's involved, the chance of it being coincidence is zero. That's our museum."

John sighed. "Sherlock, tell Missus Hudson not to worry about dinner. We're going out on the town tonight."

Sherlock walked off to do just that, Dean running to shout after him, "tell her we still want pie!"

* * *

><p>"Dean, didn't Cas say he was going to meet us here <em>after<em> dark?" Sam asked as the group stepped out of the TARDIS parked in an alley a block away from the Museum.

Sherlock turned up his collar against the windchill. "Yes," he drawled, "but as I am the only member of this group who has the floor plan memorized, I thought the rest of you might want to familiarize yourselves with the place."

"At the risk of sounding like I'm speaking in Sherlock's defense, he is right," John said to Sam. "The place is massive. You ever been?"

Sam snorted. "What to this museum? This is my second time out of the country."

"But you have been to a museum before, haven't you?"

Sam shrugged. "Went to the Field Museum in Chicago on a fieldtrip as a kid, but… never really had time for museums much, y'know?"

"Really?" John asked. "So… your childhood was—"

"Hunting monsters, killing ghosts, and loading shotgun shells with rock salt?" Sam muttered. "Yeah, pretty much."

John stared at him. "And your father was okay with that?"

"Hey," Dean snapped. "Our father didn't just fine by us, okay?"

Sherlock's expression didn't change, nor did he turn his face to look at Dean. "Clearly."

"You know what?" Sam said in the same moment that Dean opened his mouth. "How about we just change the subject? Okay, because… clearly it's not a good topic. For any of us involved."

"I think that's more than fair, Sam," the Doctor chimed up, bringing up the rear of the group. He clapped a hand on Dean's shoulder. "Don't you, Dean?"

Dean pulled out of the Doctor's reach and walked a little faster. "Let's just get to work, okay?"

* * *

><p>"We should split up," Sam said once they were all standing in the main foyer.<p>

The Doctor nodded. "Right. Sherlock and I will take the upper floors. Sam, you and John take the lower floors. And Dean—"

"Gift shop, café, and outer perimeter of the building. Got it."

The Doctor blinked, then looked around. "They have a little shop here? I love little shops—"

"_I know right?"_

"Okay, kids, let's focus," John chuckled, handing out maps to each of the group members. "So, we mark down any places that this Bela woman could use as an escape route."

"Or an entrance," Sam added.

"That is assuming she's not already here," Sherlock said, eyes flittering from face to face among the crowded throng.

"So what do we do if she is here?" Dean asked.

"Well, I'll tell you what we don't do," Sam said. "We don't go running up to her, guns blazing."

"No kidding," Dean grumbled. "How many times in the past has that worked for us?"

Sherlock smirked. "I'm going to venture a guess at _zero_."

"Congratulations, Sherlock," Dean said. "You're the world's greatest consulting _dickwad_—"

"Reign it in, boys," the Doctor mumbled.

"Look," Sam said, picking up as though they'd never lost track of the conversation. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out the envelope with pictures. "Everyone take one, just in case we get split up. If anyone sees her, we call each other. So let's take five minutes now and exchange numbers, okay?"

And they did just that. Numbers were programmed into phones, watches were synced and times were discussed. At roughly five o'clock, one hour before the museum closed and half an hour before they began closing down the various exhibit halls, they would meet in the area where the items were on display, narrow down their search to—hopefully—one or two of the displays, and discuss their plans from there. They exchanged minor admonishments, mostly Sam to Dean and John to Sherlock, and then they each went their separate ways.

* * *

><p>Dean made minimal markings on his map. The gift shop was considerably less exciting than he thought it would be, mostly due to the fact that he didn't want to buy anything. The hell if he was going to pay ten bucks for a paper weight to send home to Bobby, and when he told the cashier the very same thing, she informed him the price wasn't in American dollars. She pulled up an app on her phone, and told him the translated price.<p>

Dean threw up in his mouth a little, and promptly left the gift shop.

He looked at the café, finding even less that he was interested in. If the coffee seemed expensive in "fake money," he didn't want to do the math to find out what it really cost. That left the perimeter check outside.

Dean wasn't going to lie. He actually liked this place. Like, _a lot_. Well, he could do without the "Big Brother" cameras on every corner; that was both new _and _unwelcome, but beyond that, it was really nice. It was like the cities back home, but it _wasn't_. It was strange to him. London was new and old and modern and ancient and city and industry all at the same time. Some of the brick here had to be older than any building he'd ever seen in America. It was hard to wrap his brain around, how old some of these alleys must have been. People were living in this place before anyone even thought about chucking a bunch of tea into the ocean and starting their own country. It made a man think.

It also made a man hungry.

Fortunately, he took the perimeter check at a decent pace, marking the loading bay at the back of the museum and the emergency exits, then going back to a place he'd spotted on his walk-around: London Wall Bar and Kitchen.

Dean smirked. "Don't mind if I do," he said, and walked inside.

He was seated at a table by the window overlooking the gardens. He nearly flipped the table when he saw the prices on the menu, but he decided it was time to treat himself to a little something nice. He asked if they could put bacon on this "London Wall" burger, and was grinning like an idiot when they told him yes. The waiter recommended one of their more popular ales to pair with the burger. Dean didn't bother asking a price, and just told him that would be perfect.

He leaned back in his chair, going back over the notes he'd made on his museum handout when he realized that, while the place was nearly empty, he was not alone.

There was a woman sitting by herself a few tables down from him. Dean couldn't help but stare. She was remarkably striking, dark hair, pale skin, and blood-colored lips, long fingers tangled in a string of pearls as she read a book. She was the sort of woman who looked like she'd just stepped out of a noir film, elegant and—without a doubt—trouble.

Then again, Dean _liked_ trouble.

Her eyes, sharp and blue, flicked up from her book and for a moment, Dean couldn't move. He fumbled with the pamphlet, tried to turn it over and make it look like he'd only glanced up, rather than the truth: that he'd been staring at her for a good minute. He only succeeded in ripping the pamphlet, which made him swear and try to fix it, which made his elbow nearly spill the glass of water the waiter had poured for him all over his lap. When he had finally managed to keep himself from looking like a complete idiot, he dared a look back over at the woman. She wasn't looking at him, but her book was turned down on the table. She had a hand over her mouth. The slight shake of her shoulders made it clear she was laughing.

"Awesome," Dean mumbled to himself.

The waiter returned to inform Dean that it would be just a few minutes before his meal would be out. He asked if he wanted his drink now or with his meal. He told the waiter it didn't matter, though he wished he'd asked him to bring out the drink now. He had the feeling he was going to need it. He watched the waiter walk away, wanting to look anywhere but in the direction of the woman's table. But when he finally did look, he froze.

She was walking toward him.

She walked straight up to his table, gesturing at the chair with her handbag. "Are you expecting someone, or…?"

Dean shook his head. "N-no, no, go right ahead."

She slid into the chair, giving him a look. "American. Well now, I wasn't expecting that."

"What were you expecting?" Dean asked, smiling.

She gave a slight laugh. "Sorry, that must have sounded rude. I didn't mean it was unexpected in an unpleasant way, just… a surprise." She flashed him a winning smile, extended a hand over the table toward him. "Irene."

"Dean," he said, taking her hand. "Pleasure is mine."

"So what brings you all the way to England, Dean?" the woman asked.

"Business, actually."

"Ah," she said, smiling. "I should have guessed from the suit. What, then? Marketing? Stock trades?"

Dean pursed his lips and laughed. "Uh, no, actually. Definitely not cut out for the, ah… Wall Street World. No, I'm actually a Federal Agent."

The woman's eyes widened. "FBI? _Really_?"

Dean smirked. There was something about being an agent that caught the ladies eye every time. He nodded. "Yeah. Three years now."

"Mm, and you're in the UK rather than the US," she murmured. "Am I allowed to ask why you're here?"

Dean shrugged. "I don't see any reason why not, I mean… it's not really confidential. Long story short? My partner and I? We're tracking a criminal."

"Is that right?" she murmured. "My, that sounds very… dangerous."

"Well, she is dangerous."

"You're tracking a woman?" she asked, folding her fingers together. "How exciting… what is she wanted for?"

"Theft," he said. "She's a jewel thief."

Irene gave a soft laugh, leaning back in her chair. "That's not terribly nice. Teasing me with a story that way."

"It's not a story," Dean said. "There was a heist about… six, seven years ago? A bunch of items went missing from the museum here."

"So why would America be interested?" Irene asked.

"Well, she's caused a good deal of grief for us, too," Dean said. "From the east coast to the west coast. And now, apparently, she's showed up back here. Casing up the museum." He shrugged. "We got a tip, and… here we are."

"Well," Irene said, shifting in her seat. "I'd offer to buy you a drink in exchange for what sounds like a very engaging story, but…" She gnawed a moment on her lower lip, smiling. "I don't want to… interrupt your investigation."

Dean opened and closed his mouth before leaning toward her. "Y'know. I'm off the clock right now, so…"

Her crimson lips twitched into a wicked grin. "May I buy you a whiskey, Dean?"

"You may, Irene."

* * *

><p>"Alright, that's another one," John said as Sam finished marking down another employee's only corridor. "Onto the next one then?"<p>

"Yeah," Sam said, folding the paper and tucking it into his front pocket. "Now, where did we leave off?"

"Yellow-eyes and your father."

"Right. So Dad made the deal. But… it came with a lot of strings attached."

"How so?"

"Well, usually in a demon deal, you get ten years before they come collecting," Sam explained, keeping his voice low as two kids rushed by, followed by a mother telling them not to run. "But Azazel wasn't negotiating. The offer was Dean lived, but Dad got taken. Right then and there."

"God," John mumbled. "Does Dean know about this?"

"Yeah," Sam murmured. "Really messed him up for a long time. Still does, I think."

"Understandably. So… did you finally track him down? This Azazel?"

Sam laughed. "Well… yeah, but… turns out he was the least of our worries. Things just got… crazier and crazier." He gave John a sidelong look, then let out a laugh, shaking his head.

John frowned up at Sam. "What?"

"Nothing, it's just… weird to be talking about it this way, like it's… I dunno… small talk."

John laughed. "Trust me, if you told me two days ago I'd be listening to someone go on about demons and monsters like it was just another Tuesday at the park, I'd have called you mad."

Sam laughed with John, shaking his head. "Yeah. Welcome to the life of Sam and Dean Winchester."

"It's a bit of a shame, isn't it?" John murmured. "Jessica, I mean. Do you ever look back at it and wonder what might have been? What would have happened if you just… took that test and… had a white picket fence life?"

"Sometimes, yeah."

"And do you ever wish it could have been that way?"

Sam thought about it a moment. His nose wrinkled up and he shook his head. "Y'know, I try to avoid the 'what if's. Especially in this business. Besides, you know what they say: if wishes were horses—"

"Beggars would ride," John finished with a sigh. "That I can completely empathize with." He gave Sam a weary smile. "No way to go but forward, right?"

Sam smirked. "Yeah… something like that."

John poked his head around the corner of another hall marked, "employee's only past this point." He looked over the area, then at Sam, nodding toward the hall. "Shall we?"

* * *

><p>"Do you think—?"<p>

"Mmmno."

"Right, too small."

"No, too high."

"Ah, right. How about the—"

"I wondered, but—"

"It's a bit of a stretch, innet?" The Doctor paused in the lightning fast conversation he'd been having for nearly two minutes with Sherlock Holmes to raise an eyebrow. "Mark it down?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Just to be safe."

"Riiiiiiight," the Doctor said, scratching a few notes down on his flyer. "Alright, then. Onto the next one."

And the rapid-fire conversation continued.

* * *

><p>Dean watched Irene wipe tears away from under her eyes, still hiccoughing and giggling from the joke he'd just told. "I haven't laughed that hard in a long while."<p>

Dean laughed. Both she and he had long since finished their lunches and were onto a second glass of whatever it was Irene had ordered the first time around. He had to admit, the woman certainly knew her scotch.

Whatever it was he was drinking, it was incredible, though perhaps a bit stronger than his usual. His head was starting to swim and the lights all seemed a bit brighter than normal. "To be honest," he said, chuckling, "neither have I."

"Well, if honesty is what we're striving for," Irene said with a flourish of her hand, just a little tipsy from the drinks, "then let me amend my statement: I have never laughed so hard in my life."

Dean chuckled, sipping at his glass. "Sounds to me like you need to get out a little more often."

"Is that so?"

"That. Or maybe you just need someone more interesting."

Irene gave him a strange look. She held his gaze a long moment before laughing and setting down her drink. "Really? Is that supposed to be a pickup line, or something?"

Dean smirked. "Maybe."

Irene's expression changed from amused to smoldering in a moment. Very slowly, she leaned over the table, voice gone to a low purr. "Then why don't we, ah… just get out of here?"

Dean felt his body heat spike as a foot ran up the back of his leg, teased the soft skin behind his knee. He took a long, slow breath, but it did little to help his swimming head. "Oh, uh, whew…" he stammered. "I-I am… flattered."

A toe curled into the divot of his knee. "Is that a yes?"

Dean nearly kicked the table, managing instead to clear his throat and shift in his seat. He tugged at his collar, suddenly too tight. The lights felt blinding and full of heat. His lungs struggled against the air, like it was thick and muggy from the heat, though the building had been cool and air conditioned when he entered. He licked his suddenly-too-dry lips, laughed nervously. "Listen, Irene… were it any other day, I'd be _running_ toward the door with you. Really. It's just—"

"It wasn't a suggestion."

Dean stared at the woman, eyes narrowing as she slipped in and out of focus. "What?"

"You're coming with me," Irene said. "Dean Winchester."

Her voice was strange, like something from a carnival ride or those horrible funhouses at county fairs. Dean wanted to stand, to run, but his body wouldn't move. "Who the hell are you?"

"Irene Adler," she said, reaching into her handbag and pulling out a mirror. She reapplied the color on her lips, pursed them and examined herself for a moment before snapping it shut. "I didn't lie." She pointed at him, mirror in hand. "You did—"

"What the hell do you want?"

Irene smiled. "For you and your friends to stay out of our way. Now you might not be expecting anyone to meet you here, Dean, but I am." Her gaze went over his shoulder and she smiled—warmer and far more genuinely than she had the whole time they'd been talking. "And here she is now."

A familiar set of legs appeared beside his chair. He followed them up to the pinstripe pattern of a dress, up further to a neck, a face. Bela Talbot smiled down at him, every bit as flawless as he remembered. "Hello Dean."

Dean pushed himself to his feet. He barely had the strength to growl, "you devil-bitch—"

"Aw, shh-shh-shh," Irene purred as Bela shoved him back into his seat with next to no effort. She kept her hands on his shoulders, pretending to rub them as she held him in the chair. "We don't want any fuss." Irene smiled, turning her head to the side. "How are you feeling, Dean?"

Dean's jaw set. "Screw you."

"Charming, isn't he?" Bela said. He could hear the smile in her words.

"Mm," Irene said. "Any more charming and I'd skip the foreplay and go straight to the beatings. But you didn't answer my question, Dean."

Dean tried to laugh, tried to bluff his way through the conversation, but his head was spinning. Even his words were skewed and shaped wrong. "What, I'm supposed to be impressed that you roofied me?"

"Call it a service to women everywhere," Irene snapped, her smile gone animal. "What? You never expected someone might actually take the chance to put you in your place?"

Dean lunged forward, or at least tried to. He only managed to slump across the table. Irene caught his face in both her hands, shushing him and easing him back into his seat. "Oh, no no no… No need for theatrics, Dean," Irene said, stroking his face. "Just relax. We're not going to hurt you. Well… I _hope_ we don't have to hurt you. But then, that's entirely up to your friends." Dean watched her go out of focus, watched the light absorb everything until the whole of his vision was white. It faded to gray, then to black.

* * *

><p>"So we've narrowed it down quite a bit," Sherlock said, handing their copy of the museum layout to John. "If it's here, its in one of these three cases."<p>

"Yeah," John said. "Sam and I were thinking the same."

"Brilliant," the Doctor said, looking from pamphlet to pamphlet. "So we've got all possible exits and entrances marked, we've got it hopefully narrowed down quite a bit, and no sign of our female friend."

"Maybe we're lucky," John murmured.

The Doctor shrugged. "Maybe, yeah, but…" He sighed. "Lucky is usually right where the ground falls out from under you."

Sam walked toward the group, shaking his head. "Right, so I've called Dean's cellphone three times. No answer."

"God, I hate it when you're right," John muttered to the Doctor. "Alright, um…" He rubbed his hands together. "Well, we're all done here. Let's go look for him. Let's split up and—"

"You know what, let's just be safe and go together?" Sam said, looking from face to face. "If this is anything, and… I'm not saying it is, but if it is? Let's not get separated more, okay?"

"Sam's right," Sherlock said. "And if this is 'anything,' then we've no time to lose."

Sam asked about Dean at the information desk ("About yea high, light hair, medium build?"). They directed the group to the gift shop—where the Doctor would have been more than content to remain until closing—who directed them to the café who informed them that the man had left the building. They walked outside, asking a few of the people on the streets if they'd seen the gentlemen when Sam stopped.

"What?" the Doctor asked.

Sam pointed. "There. If I know my brother, that's where he will be."

* * *

><p>They walked up to the place marked "London Wall Bar and Kitchen," stepped up to the host's podium and asked if he'd seen the man.<p>

"Dean, right?" the host asked with a roll of his eyes.

Sam clapped his hands together, gave a laugh. "Ha! Y-yes! Yes, exactly, so he's here?"

"_Was_," the host said. "He just left about ten, fifteen minutes ago." He nodded at Sam. "I'm going to guess you're the agent's partner?"

Sam blinked. "Uh… _yeah_, how did you—?"

"Wouldn't shut up about it," the host muttered. "Trying to impress his lady friend." He pointed a finger at Sam, leaned on the podium. "Tell you what, you better call your superior, because you're not going to find him anytime soon."

"How do you mean?" Sam asked, frowning.

"Well, he and his lady friend left here together," the host said, then lowering his voice, leaned toward Sam and whispered, "if you know what I mean."

Sam stared blankly at the man. "You gotta be kidding me."

The host shrugged. "Wish I was. Sorry."

"Pardon, but this woman," Sherlock interrupted, stepping up to stand beside Sam. "She didn't happen to look like this?" He slid the picture of Bela over the countertop toward the man.

The host picked it up, looked at it then shook his head. "Nope. This one was paler. Darker haired, too. Definitely not the same woman."

"May we see the table?" Sherlock asked.

"Sure, but they've already bused it," the host said, pointing. He looked between Sherlock and Sam. "We're not going to get in any sort of trouble, are we? Letting a US agent wander off?"

"Why?" Sherlock asked, leaning toward the host. "Have you done something to get yourselves into trouble?"

"'Course not, we just—"

"You're not going to get in any trouble, okay?" Sam said, pulling back Sherlock. "Thanks for your time, we'll just be a minute."

John and the Doctor stayed by the entrance as Sherlock and Sam walked toward the small table. As the host had said, the table had already been cleared of dishes and wiped clean. Not so much as a grain of salt was out of place. Sherlock bent to examine the floor, the chairs, but, much like the table, anything that might have been useful was gone.

Sherlock stood upright and turned to Sam. "Nothing."

"Great," Sam sighed.

"What do you think? Suspicious?"

"Honestly, I don't know," Sam said. "I wouldn't think he'd bail on a case this big, but…" His words trailed off as his phone beeped in his pocket. He pulled it out, checking the new text message. Naturally, it was from Dean.

Doooode, Brit chicks r HAWT. Don't wait up. ;D

Sam snapped his phone shut and looked at Sherlock.

Sherlock's mouth twitched. "Dean, I presume."

Sam nodded violently, his face gone red. "I'm gonna kill him, Sherlock. So help me God, I'm going to kill him."

Sherlock sighed. "Well, perhaps it would be best to wait until _after_ this evening's scheduled events."

Sam let out a tense breath, shoving the phone back in his pocket. "Yeah." They walked back to the front of the restaurant, John and the Doctor looking inquisitive as Sam held up his phone. "He's AWOL to bag a chick."

John blinked. "Bag a chick, you don't mean—"

"Yeah, I do."

John blinked again, eyes widening. "Wh—now? Seriously?"

"Oh yeah," Sam said, barely containing his rage.

"But…" John checked his watch. "Th-the museum just closed! It's going to be dark in an hour or two! What about the plan?"

"We'll just have to take care of it without him," Sam said with a shrug. "Aaaaand once we've finished… we'll have to give him the ass-kicking of his life."

"Great," John muttered. "So what now?"

"Now?" Sam echoed. "Now, we just… wait."

* * *

><p>Once the museum was closed and locked for the evening and all but the handful of evening crew had left for the night, the Doctor brought the TARDIS down in one of the security camera's blindspots they'd found on the second floor. They stood for a while, then, one by one, they began leaning on the wall, then sitting on the floor. Sometime later, the Doctor and Sherlock were lying flat on their backs in opposite directions beside each other while John typed away on his laptop and Sam played a game on his cellphone.<p>

"Bored," Sherlock grumbled.

"_Soooo_ bored," the Doctor agreed.

Sherlock sighed. "More bored than bored."

"Ugh. Bored out of my gourd in a smorgasbord with a hoard who are also booored," the Doctor muttered, draping an arm over his eyes.

Sherlock groaned. "Bored as a _board_ carved into a _sword_ that I wish to the _lord_ I could kill myself with."

"Do you have to do that?" John asked, looking up. "Both of you? Really?"

"When is Castiel supposed to arrive?" the Doctor asked, lifting up his arm just enough to look at John.

"We don't know."

The Doctor and Sherlock groaned in tandem.

John looked at his watch, then at the two. "We've only been here thirty minutes! Can you two just—"

"Where is Dean?"

John jumped, almost falling over as he scrambled to his feet, staring at the angel standing too close behind him. "What in the—are you trying to scare the life out of me?"

"My apologies," Castiel said, then looked to Sam. "Dean. He isn't here."

"Yeah, no kidding," Sam muttered. "He's, ah… occupied. Elsewhere."

Castiel's eyes narrowed and his head turned to the side. "Occupied?"

"He's having intimate relationships with a female while we do the heavy lifting," Sherlock muttered, picking himself up off the floor and dusting himself off.

Castiel looked from face to face, then back to Sam. "Truly?"

"You're surprised?" Sam asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Sadly, no." He sighed. "Come. Let us find the fragment and be done. I have things to attend to."

* * *

><p>The group walked through the darkened corridors of the museum, down the stairs toward the older exhibits.<p>

"Man," Sam said as they walked past a glass case filled with old pots and plaster-cast death masks. "And I thought parts of this place were creepy in the day. Night just makes it… yeeeeck."

"It makes me curious, tho," John said. "You told me you hunt ghosts and… those spirits that haven't passed on. Well, America, when you think about it, isn't all that old. London on the other hand… I mean, it must be teeming with spirits and ghosts and… How many hunters do you imagine are here in the Greater London area alone?"

Sam's eyebrows went up. "Wow… y'know, I never thought about it like that. Actually, we met one once. From England, a hunter. Her name was Tamara."

"Really?"

"How did she die?" Sherlock asked.

Sam turned. "Excuse me?"

"Well, taking from your tone, something rather tragic happened in those regards. Judging by your line of work, the chances of that being something non-fatal is slim to none. So… how did she die?"

"She didn't," Sam murmured. "Her husband did. We wanted to work together on a case, but…" Sam's throat worked. "Well, long story short, they got jumped by some demons. Seriously bad demons. Her husband, Isaac, died."

"What happened to Tamara?" the Doctor asked.

"I dunno," Sam said. "We… didn't really stay in touch, y'know? She had a twin sister somewhere here in England… said she was going to go home for a while, but…" He shrugged. "You don't exactly keep in touch with the guys who were there when your husband died."

Castiel stopped walking and pointed. "There."

"What?" the Doctor asked.

Castiel walked into the wing housing the artifacts. Some of the displays had been covered in long black sheets and others had the lights turned off. This case, however, was still lit. The angel walked directly up to the case, pressing both hands and his forehead against the glass with an audible 'thunk'. He tapped on the glass, pointing. "There. That is the second fragment."

The others gathered around the case.

"The metal one?" Sam asked.

"Yes."

"Perfect," John said. "Well, tempered glass and alarms aside, how do we go about getting into it?"

"I could reroute the alarm," Sam offered. "It would take a couple of minutes, but—"

As he spoke, Castiel was rolling up his sleeve. Without so much as a word, he stuck his arm into the case. His hand passed without resistance through the glass. With remarkable ease, he reached right down and picked up a long shard of metal.

"Or we could do that," the Doctor said.

Castiel pulled it from the case and held it up in front of his eyes, examining it a moment. He rolled down the sleeve of his jacket. "This is most certainly the fragment we are searching for."

A light, one-person applause came from a few steps away. A female voice, sweet and sneering, called over to them. "Someone give the dog a bone."

They all turned to see a woman with hair the color of dark caramel standing in front of one of the covered displays. "Tell him what he's won, Sam," she beamed, pulling the heavy velvet cover off of the display. The glass had been painted with a large red circle and sigils, still wet and shimmering. Her wrist was bound with a damp handkerchief.

Sam realized only too late. "No!"

The woman slammed a hand into the blood-drawn sigil. There was a flash of light, Castiel's screams. They all covered their faces, stunned by the sudden assault on their eyes. When their vision finally cleared, Castiel was gone.

Sam was the first to recover, stepping toward the woman. "You bitch—"

"Good to see you, too, Sam," Bela said, holding up her revolver and pointing it right at Sam's face. Her gaze flicked over the others. "Hands behind your heads. All of you." Turning her attention back to Sam, she said, "now if you don't mind, I'll pass on the hugs and kisses and take my welcome home gift, thanks."

"You mean this?" the Doctor asked stooping to retrieve the fragment.

"Ah," Bela said, pulling out a second gun from the holster on her leg and aiming it at the Doctor. "I wouldn't touch that, if I were you."

The Doctor frowned. "Why? Are you going to shoot me?"

"No," Bela said, the smile never leaving her face. The gun moved from the Doctor, now pointing at Sherlock and John, the other still trained on Sam. "Them, however…"

The Doctor's jaw tensed.

Bela smirked. "Are you faster than me? _Timelord_?" She chuckled at his expression. "That's right. We know what you are. You come here all wide-eyes and good intentions. Have you even told your friends what really happened to your p—"

"Stop it," the Doctor snapped.

She smiled, but didn't say another word. Her gaze found Sam's. "You know why I'm here."

"Yeah, I know," Sam said. "I'm a little fuzzy on the _how_."

"The boss pulled some strings," Bela said. "I'm damn good at what I do, well… _did_. So I earned a "get out of jail free" card, got on the fast track to promotion and here I am. New…" She blinked, eyes solid black. Another blink and they returned to normal. "_And_ improved."

"A demon," Sam snapped. "Just when I thought you couldn't get any more low-class."

"Sticks and stones, Sam," Bela sing-songed. "Now…" She nodded at the fragment. "Why don't you kick that on over to me?"

Sam's jaw set. "No."

"Then let me clarify." Bela cocked the hammer of the revolver back. "I'm not asking just as a favor."

"And I'm not saying no just because you're a bitch."

Bela's jaw went tight a moment, then she began to laugh. "Alright. Fine. Then allow me to present my counter-offer."

From the dark end of the room, a pair of soft-stepping heels could be heard. A woman appeared, bundled in a peacoat and holding a cellphone.

This time it was Sherlock who spoke out of turn. "Irene?"

She smiled. "Hello again, Sherlock Holmes," she said. "Long time no see." She looked down at her phone. "You don't return my text messages."

"I blocked your number," Sherlock replied in the same casual tone. "Safety issues."

Irene's lips twitched into a smile. "For you or for me?"

John stared at the woman. "She's alive? And you knew?" John looked between the two women. "Wait, she isn't—"

"I'm not as _well-connected_ as Miss Talbot, if that's what you're wondering, Doctor Watson," she said, tapping away at her cellphone as she stood beside Bela. "However, we are currently employed by… gentlemen of a similar mind—"

"Do you have any idea what you're getting yourself into?" Sam snapped.

Irene smiled. "For the price I was offered, I chose not to ask." Her smile bore teeth and she looked at the Winchester boy. "You must be Sam." She looked down at her phone. "Tell me, Sam. Do you love your brother?"

Sam felt a sickly cold shiver go through him, resting in a damp heap in his stomach. A dozen thoughts raced through his mind, but only two words left his mouth. "Where's Dean?"

Irene smiled. "Safe. For the moment." She waved her phone at him. "I have a picture, if you'd like." She walked to Sam, holding her phone up in front of her.

Sam's eye twitched, barely concealing his rage. The photo was of Dean, strapped up to what looked like thick wooden post of a dock. The water was up to his waist and he looked to be unconscious.

Irene turned the phone back to herself. "Now, you know how this ends, Sam. If you don't—"

"Please," Sherlock sneered. "Dean's in no danger; there's only one of three places he could be."

"Sherlock," Irene said. "You never cease to impress. But we did plan ahead." She smiled. "Do you really think you can you check all three places within the next…" She looked at her watch. "Twenty minutes?" She gave a sheepish shrug. "I mean, tide's coming in. Oh, and of course, there's the _sniper_. For _extra_ measure. And he won't be called off until we give him the go-ahead—"

"You don't have to do this," the Doctor said. "Neither of you. You both could just walk away."

Bela let out a sudden bark of laughter. "Really? Has that _ever_ worked for you, Timelord? Ever?"

"Clock's ticking, gentlemen," Irene said. "You give us the fragment, let us go and once we're in our cab, I text you the location of your darling big brother. Or…" Irene bit her lower lip and chuckled. "Well, the other option involves a good deal more _death_."

"Give them what they want, Sam," John said, his voice level. "We'll get it back later."

"So confident," Irene said, smiling at Sherlock. "Brave. I can see why you keep him around."

Sam put his foot on the metal shard. "Take it, you black-eyed bitch," he snapped, kicking it toward Bela.

Bela returned the gun to her holster and bent to pick it up with her free hand. She lifted it to her lips, giving it a kiss before returning it to her pocket. "Thank you, Sam," she said as she and Irene backed up towards the doorway. "You'll be hearing from us shortly."

"Oh, and before I forget," Irene said, reaching into her handbag and sliding something on the floor toward Sam. It slowed and knocked against his foot; Dean's phone. She smiled. "Tell him I enjoyed our date."

"I don't want to hear anyone moving until we're long gone," Bela said, stilling pointing her gun at the group. "So much as a hint that you boys are trying to follow us and you won't get so much as a street name. Consider that before anyone does anything foolish."

"This isn't over," Sam snapped.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "We'll be seeing you again shortly."

Irene chuckled. "Don't flatter yourselves, darlings."

Their shadows vanished, then the sound of footsteps, then the sound of anything at all. John dropped his arms to his sides, shaking his head. "Stupid. So stupid, just…" He gestured at the blood sigil. "What the hell is that? What happened to Cas?"

"It banishes angels," Sam muttered. "Blood seal, it… look, Cas is fine, it'll just take him a while before he can get back to us."

"Any chance he can pop down and snatch up Dean?" the Doctor asked.

"He can't find him, remember?" Sam muttered, running a hand over his chest. "The Enochian. Dean's hidden." Sam then turned and looked at Sherlock who was casually examining the place where Castiel had been standing just minutes before. Sam frowned. "You know, for someone who didn't want to believe in any of this and just saw and angel get toasted before meeting their first demon, you're surprisingly calm."

Sherlock gave him a look and an indignant shrug. "What good would it do me to panic, now?"

"Right, because no one panicked over the hound of Baskerville," John drawled.

Sherlock mouth turned to a pout, but before he could say anything, Dean's phone started buzzing. Sam bent to pick it up, opening the message. "We've got an address."

The Doctor took off at a brisk run. "Let's go."

* * *

><p>Sam was the first out of the TARDIS, rushing down the rocky edge of the shore. The water was rising fast. Much faster than they'd expected. It'd taken too long to get to the TARDIS and, in Sam's opinion, too long to get to the address Bela had given them. Water was already covering the posts of some of the smaller docks around them, the rowboats bobbing in threat of the soon-to-be storm.<p>

Sam looked from dock to dock, cupped his hands around his mouth and screamed. "_Dean?"_

Nothing.

He screamed again, trying to make his voice carry over the wind. "_Dean?"_

"Doctor!" John said, pointing to the dock nearest them. "You check there, we'll take this next one!"

The Doctor nodded and took off running. He shone his screwdriver, now a bright beam of blue light, under the first dock, called out Dean's name. When no one answered, the Doctor shrugged off his trench coat and suit jacket and stepped into the frigid, rapidly rising waters.

Sam and the others ran to the next dock. John had already pulled his phone out, shining the built in LED flashlight at the darkness that was the shoreline.

"You're sure this is the right place?" Sam asked, unable to conceal his panic.

"Yeah," John said. "Exactly the right place, it—"

"Then where the hell is Dean?" Sam shouted, rounding on John. "Why isn't he here? We—"

Sherlock grabbed Sam's shoulder, putting himself between the two. "Sam, I know this is difficult, but you have to remain calm, or we…" He suddenly stopped speaking, looking around. "What was that?"

"What was—?"

Sherlock nearly tore John's head off, waving his arms around for silence. His eyes were wide and frantic as he suddenly went still. No one moved for a long while. No one so much as _breathed_.

Sherlock turned to Sam. "_That!"_ he shouted. "Did you hear that?"

Sam began shaking his head when it came again; the sound of coughing and sputtering. A voice, distant and weak shouting.

"Sam?"

Sam shoved past Sherlock and John. "_Dean!"_

"Doctor!" Sherlock called as John took off, already at Sam's heels. "_Over here! This way, hurry!"_

More coughing, louder as Sam rushed into the frigid water. The voice was shaking from the cold, weak and desperate. "_Sammy?"_

"_I'm coming, Dean, just hang on!"_

Sam's legs pushed through the water, hardly noticing how cold it was. He slipped on a stone, losing his footing a moment. John caught his arm, pulling him upright as they both waded into the underbelly of the old wooden dock. John flashed the light of his phone at the posts, Sam's eyes flicking from place to place with increasing desperation. John shouted, holding his light on the man handcuffed to one of the wooden posts. "There! Sam, he's there—!"

"Dean!" Sam shouted. "Dean, I'm coming!"

Dean looked in their direction with tired, frightened eyes. He was soaked in salt water, teeth chattering and skin far paler than it should have been. His lips had turned a deep blue-lavender and he was having trouble keeping his head above the rising tide. "_S-Sammy?"_

"Just hold on!" Sam gasped, pushing out into the water. "I'm right here, Dean, don't…" He looked back at John just long enough to shout, "keep that light on him! I'm coming Dean!"

There were footsteps on the boardwalk above, voices. "John!" Sherlock shouted down through the wooden planks. "How far to Dean?"

John didn't hesitate, shouting back, "three and a quarter meters!"

Sam struggled to keep his balance against the waves, coming in harder than before. A sudden wave took him by surprise and washed him off his feet. He broken the surface, only greeted by darkness and the sound of Dean coughing. The light was gone. He looked back at John, who had also been knocked off his feet. There was a light in the water for a moment, but before John could grab it, it went out.

Sam swore under his breath, kept swimming toward the dark shadow and the fading sound of breathing. His hands closed on the wooden post, feeling until his fingers found the metal links. Another wave struck, sending water into Sam's nose and throat. He broke the surface, gasping and sputtering. Dean's breathing was growing weaker. "S-Sammy?" he coughed.

"I'm right here, Dean," Sam said, struggling with the cuffs. "I'm right here, I'm not going anywhere, you hear me? You just hang on, and—"

A bright blue light suddenly appeared above them and the Doctor's head popped out over the lip of the dock. "Sam!"

"The cuffs!" Sam shouted at the Doctor. "They handcuffed him, I can't—"

"Take it!" the Doctor shouted, holding out the strange metal device he'd used when they first met.

Sam stared at it. "What?"

"Point it at the cuffs and push the button!" the Doctor shouted. "Don't lose it, Sam!"

Sam reached up, standing on his tip-toes. "I-I can't reach it!"

"Sherlock," the Doctor shouted over his shoulders. "Grab my ankles!" A moment later, the Doctor's torso was over the edge of the boardwalk, stretching as long as he could toward Sam.

Sam's hand barely found the tool, gripping around it just as another wave rushed around them. His feet went out from under him, but his hands held on the wooden post. He managed to drag himself upright enough to point the device at the cuffs. He hadn't noticed Dean had stopped coughing, nor that he wasn't moving. The only thing Sam cared about was getting those damn cuffs off.

The device made the strangest noise as he pointed it at the cuffs. It made his teeth and ears itch and sent chills all over his body. It took only a few seconds, but it felt like hours. The cuffs popped open as if it were nothing and Dean slid into the water. Sam grabbed him by the collar of his shirt, dragging his to the surface and pulling one of Dean's arms over his shoulder. With whatever strength he had left, he began dragging his brother through the rising water towards shore.

The others were waiting for him, there to catch him as he all-but collapsed on the stony shore, coughing hard. Sherlock and the Doctor pulled Dean out of the water, John checking Sam until Sherlock spoke.

"John. John, he's not breathing."

"What?" Sam coughed, eyes gone wide.

"Everyone just take a step back," John said, turning his attention to Dean.

Sam was shaking his head. "N-no. No, no no, Dean—"

"Sam," Sherlock said, stepping in front of the man, "it's okay."

"Dean?" Sam said, his voice rising in panic. "Is he—?"

John began chest compressions, pounding his arms into Dean's chest and counting under his breath.

"Sam," Sherlock repeated, voice level.

"N-no, No!" he shouted, trying to shove past Sherlock. He stopped, stunned at the sudden pain in his face.

Sherlock shook the sting out of his hand, then reached up and grabbed a handful of Sam's soaked shirt. "Sam, listen to me. You need to let John do this."

Sam shook his head. "He's my brother."

"And John's a _doctor_," Sherlock said, voice hard. "I trust him with my life. Trust him with your brother's."

Sam rubbed a hand over his mouth, eyes going glassy. He nodded, sniffled hard.

"It's going to be alright," Sherlock said, setting a hand on Sam's shoulder and not letting go.

Sam watched as John breathed air into his brother's lungs, pounded Dean's chest. He repeated the process over and over. A minute ticked by with no success.

Sam shook his head over and over. "Not like this," he whispered. "Come on, Dean, not like this…"

John kept pumping Dean's chest, muttering to himself. "Twenty-six… twenty-seven… twenty-eight… twenty-nine… thirty…" He repeated the rescue breathing, went back to the pumps. His arms were getting sore. "Twenty-nine… _come on you stubborn_…" He leaned down for another rescue breath when Dean's whole body suddenly lurched. He vomited up water, head turning to the side as he coughed and spasmed.

"Dean!" Sam gasped, shoving past Sherlock and falling to his knees by his brother's side. "Dean, oh my God."

"Don't try to talk," John told Dean. "Don't worry. You're safe now."

"Sam?" Dean asked, eyes struggling to focus.

"Shh," Sam said, grabbing Dean's hand. "Dean, I'm right here, man. Just hang on. We're going to get you in the TARDIS, okay? Don't talk, just…"

John stood up, ringing the water out of his sweater as he stared at the two brothers.

"Good work, Doctor Watson," Sherlock said quietly.

John nodded, still breathless. "Yeah," he panted. "Well… sometimes you get lucky."

Sam smirked. "Humility doesn't suit you."

"Skill's not on my side this time," John murmured. He looked at the Doctor. "That was too close a call. Far too close."

The Doctor frowned, looking around the shore. His eyes rested on Sam and Dean and he nodded. "Come on, let's get him to the TARDIS."

* * *

><p>"I'm here to see Crowley. Is he here, presently?"<p>

"Who's asking?"

Aziraphale sighed, pressing the button on the intercom again. "You know perfectly well. He's expecting me."

For a long while, nothing happened. Finally, just as Aziraphale reached to ring the bell a second time, the door buzzed. He pulled it open, stepping into what was _once_ a foyer. Now it was covered in decay and falling to pieces. Aziraphale would never understand demons and their penchant for all things crude and unseemly. Of course, Crowley had never shown such a horrible lack of taste and style, but that was neither here nor there.

There were three demons sitting around a folding table playing cards. Not a one of them looked up at him as the one with dark hair pointed. "He's upstairs. Second door on the right."

Aziraphale looked at the broken staircase and sighed. "You couldn't be bothered to tidy up?"

The demon looked up, eyes turned to slick black circles. "You couldn't be bothered to keep your mouth shut?"

"Boys."

The three demons all rose from their seats to look to where Crowley was standing at the top of the staircase. He was wiping tomato paste off his hands onto the white apron tied around his waist. It was out of place considering he still wore the black suit, sans coat and tie. It was even more out of place when one considered the apron was bordered with lace. He raised an eyebrow at the demons. "Is that anyway to treat our guest?"

The demon swallowed. "Sir… I didn't mean—"

Crowley snapped his fingers. The demon instantly became a pile of meat and gore, splattering over his two gamemates and the table. Without so much as another word, Crowley looked to Aziraphale, smiling. "Come on up, Azzie," he said. "I'm just finishing dinner."

Aziraphale was upstairs in the blink of an eye, walking toward the room Crowley had walked into. Unlike the rest of the building, the room was in perfect order. It was strange to step through the threshold and go from a place that should have, rightly, been condemned, to a lavish apartment.

Music was playing from the other room, and a table for two had been set in front of the fireplace. Aziraphale was taking it all in when he caught sight of the demon in the doorway. He was balancing a bowl, stirring it briskly with a wire whisk. He nodded. "Take a seat, I'm just finishing up the dessert." He pointed at the angel with the whisk, dribbling chocolate onto the floor. "You. Wouldn't believe. The day I've had." And with that, he turned back toward the kitchen.

Aziraphale unwound the scarf from his neck and hung it on the coatrack near the front room. "Crowley," he said, raising his voice enough to be heard over the music in the other room. "Crowley, we have things to discuss."

"Of course we do," Crowley shouted from the other room.

Aziraphale began walking towards the kitchen. "Don't Stop Me Now," was blaring from a small radio, Crowley humming along, whisking in time. "_Urgent_ matters, Crowley."

"Yes," he said, not looking up. "I'm well aware. But first, dinner."

Aziraphale's throat worked. "It isn't going to help, you know."

"Nonsense," Crowley said. "You love chocolate. And…" Crowley smirked. "I made your favorite."

"Dinner or dessert?"

"Both."

Aziraphale gave him a sidelong look. "You… are _terrible_."

"Call it a hobby," Crowley smirked. He poured the chocolate mousse into cups, set the bowl in the sink and then carried the mousse to the fridge. He closed it with his hip, still singing to himself as he walked up to Aziraphale, a thick curl of chocolate on his thumb. "Try it."

"Crowley."

"Oh, come on. Don't be a fuddy-duddy, try it!"

Aziraphale did as he was told. The mousse was dark and thick, the flavor evolving as it rolled over his tongue. "My goodness," he murmured, pressing a hand to his mouth.

"Imported beans from Madagascar," Crowley said, untying the apron. "You can taste the grapefruit and smoke in the chocolate. Delicious, innet? Now." He twirled the apron then snapped it at Aziraphale. "Go sit down. Dinner will be out momentarily, and…" He held up a finger. "No business at the dinner table. Or else."

"Or else what?"

"Or else there will be no dessert."

Aziraphale's eyes widened. "You're a terrible being."

Crowley snorted, ran a hand from shoulder to thigh. "King of Hell. Now, get going."

* * *

><p>One dinner, two bottles of wine, two bowls of chocolate mousse, and half a bottle of Glencraig later, both the angel and the demon were still sitting at the small table, laughing as Aziraphale struggled to pour them each another glass.<p>

"I swear to God, if you spill so much as a drop on this tablecloth—"

"Please," Aziraphale said. "M'not that drunk." He began smiling as he slid Crowley's glass to him. "So, Scottish? Really?"

"That's what I told them, yeah."

Aziraphale began giggling. "A-and Hell? They think that—"

"Call it witness protection," Crowley chuckled. "Besides, no one needs to know my real age."

"But telling them you're, what… that little Fergus fellow who sold his soul for…" Aziraphale might have flushed if his cheeks weren't already rosy from the drink.

"For a better bargaining rod with the ladies?" Crowley asked.

Aziraphale began laughing. "Crude!"

"Fact!" Crowley said. "And, you know what? They believed it. Everyone of them. Besides, with Lilith and Aleister gone, there's no one around with proof I'm not, now is there?"

"And didn't you feel… I don't know…" Aziraphale shrugged. "Ridiculous? I mean, you couldn't pick a better candidate to feign yourself a human-identity on?"

"See, that just shows how much you're paying attention," Crowley said, pointing a finger at Aziraphale with some difficulty. "It's sentimental value. Naturally. The little bastard grew up alongside the distillery."

Aziraphale pointed at his glass. "Wh—for Glencraig? _Really_? 'at's brilliant!"

Crowley beamed. "Eh, I thought so." He sighed. "Shame, tho. McLeod had turned out to be one hell of a crossroads demon. Could talk the ladies into any sort of deal. Impressive really."

"So, why'sit a shame?" Aziraphale asked, frowning.

"Well, because he got torched a few months back," Crowley said. "Didn't Cassie tell you the details on our little project?"

Aziraphale sobered a little and snorted. "Honestly, I think I may be the only one he did tell the details to."

"So you heard Bobby Singer dug up McLeod's bones? Was gonna torch them?"

"You're kidding."

"No. Wish I was. I mean…" He lifted a hand in the air. "You spend three hundred years perfecting a false identity and then some redneck in a cabin comes along and poof. Gone. Years of lying and working and—"

"Perhaps you should have given back his soul the first time he asked," Aziraphale said, waggling a finger.

Crowley snorted. "Please. M'have a reputation to think of."

"I heard you gave him his soul back anyway," Aziraphale said.

Crowley sighed. "Well, considering he had me cornered the way he did…" He snorted. "So… the Winchesters, Castiel's little pets, they flew all the way out to Scotland to dig up McLeod's bones. Was gonna burn 'em if I didn't give Singer his soul back, so…" He shrugged. "I played along. Acted all scared and then went to collect the _real_ McLeod's things." He finished off his glass with a sigh. "It was that or let them know who and what I really was." He pointed at Aziraphale. "And a gentlemen never tells his true age." A sigh. "Besides, the bones came in useful for the, ah… later deception."

"Castiel told me about that," Aziraphale murmured. "You were entirely certain you couldn't go get the Winchester boy's soul from the cage?"

Crowley laughed, pouring himself another glass. "Please. M'old, but not that old." He pointed at Aziraphale with the bottle. "You think you'd done any better? I'mean, we're about the same age."

"True," Aziraphale said, holding out his glass. "But really, the whole affair was very risky business." His eyes widened. "Business! Crowley, we're supposed to be talking business."

Crowley groaned, slumping back in his chair. "_Azzie_."

"No, we need tuh sober up. Right now."

"I _hate_ this bit."

"Do it."

Both the demon and the angel shut their eyes. In a single rapid—albeit not entirely painless—second, the alcohol left their systems. Aziraphale reached up a hand to his temple as Crowley swore aloud.

"Goddamnit!" Crowley shouted. "Why does that always hurt?"

"Why don't we ever learn our lesson?" Aziraphale moaned, rubbing at his eyes under his glasses. "But, no! Crowley," he said, looking directly at the demon. "We, we need to talk. I mean it."

"Cas sent you, didn't he?" Crowley drawled, leaning back in his chair.

"It doesn't matter."

"So he did."

"You, Crowley, are supposed to be laying low," Aziraphale said. "Castiel's orders."

"And I am!" Crowley snapped. "What are the odds of my being tracked by Godstiel's favorite all the way out here?"

"That's not why he's upset, Crowley."

"What," Crowley drawled, picking up his glass. "They were out of trench coats at Burlington? Or did Dean Winchester break up with him?"

"Rude."

"Fact."

"What concerns Castiel is… well, it's more than a rumor." Aziraphale folded his manicured hands in his lap with a sigh. "Crowley, we've heard that… you're trying to gather all the pieces of the spear."

"What spear?"

"You know what spear."

Crowley held Aziraphale's gaze for a long while then sighed. "Yes, okay? Yes, I'm looking for the pieces of the spear, but with good reason, so before Cas comes down here in all his monotone glory, just hear me out." He leaned across the table. "There are beings here."

Aziraphale frowned. "Are you still drunk?"

"No, Azzie, listen! There are beings here. Beings not from this world. Not from our sphere, plane, whatever you want to call it. They are here and they are… so. valuable."

Aziraphale's expression changed from confusion to concern. His mouth opened, suddenly dry as he struggled to speak. "You're trying to harvest their souls—"

"Think of the exchange rate!" Crowley gasped. "With power like that, we might not even need purgatory!"

"It's risky," Aziraphale murmured. "Very risky. And the other spheres? They won't take kindly to it—"

"_Please_, it's not like I'm looking to go after worlds," Crowley said rolling his eyes. "Just… picking off the stragglers. It's like the chips at the bottom of the fast food bag. No one misses them. Not really." At the look on Aziraphale's face, Crowley smirked at him. "It's just business, darling. That's all."

"I don't like it."

"Well, bully for you, ducky. You don't have to."

Aziraphale winced. He swallowed and picked up his glass, staring at the dark, amber liquid inside of it. "What happened, Crowley?"

Crowley's jaw worked. "What?"

"To you," Aziraphale murmured. "What happened to you? You weren't like this before, it…" He swallowed. "Crowley, I don't like it."

"You don't get it, do you?" Crowley snapped. "You know, I don't know how things are up in heaven whenever one of these stupid Apocalypses roll around, but it's no Sunday picnic downstairs. I worked my ass off to stop that last apocalypse thirty years ago, and you know what? I got a bloody promotion! A huge promotion. The next apocalypse rolls around, and guess what? I go from Crossroads Demon to _King of Bloody Hell! _But you know what kills me? There will be another apocalypse coming. And another after that, and another and another and another, and I'm fucking sick of it!" he roared, slamming a hand down on the table. "Aren't you? Another war always looming on the horizon, all the flash and drama and nothing ever changing? Think about it. The only thing that doesn't change is _Death_. And Azzie, I'm sure he's sick of playing along by now.

"But Cas and me? We're on to stop it for good. Think about it. The new God, the new Devil, and together we make a new age. No more apocalypses, no more "Angelic Family Deathmatches" on Sunday evenings… just…" Crowley shrugged. "Humans doing their human things with us watching under—well, in your case, over—them. And us? Your people, my people? Get this, we just do our nine-to-fives and call it a day. That's it. You guys get some of the souls, we get the others, organized, orderly… no more apocalypse, and—" He said, holding up a finger in Aziraphale's face. "Don't give me that, 'things will be better when we win,' lecture. I've heard it before, and trust me… you don't buy your own bullshit."

Aziraphale's jaw worked. "Crowley, I don't like what you're becoming."

Crowley leaned back in his chair. "Well… considering I'm not becoming anything I wasn't already… too damn bad."

Aziraphale set down his glass and rose from the table. "You know, I think that will be all for today."

Crowley groaned. "Azzie—"

"I'll show myself out—"

"Aziraphale!" Crowley said, standing and reaching out toward the angel. There was a flap of wings and he was gone. "You stupid feathery arse!" he shouted at the ceiling.

There was no response.

* * *

><p>Sam was on his feet the moment John entered the main console area of the TARDIS. "How is he?"<p>

"He's fine, Sam," John said, "_really_. He just needs to rest, that's all. We're lucky we got to him when we did."

"Luck has nothing to do with it," the Doctor muttered, rubbing his mouth. "Lucky would mean this never happened—luck is being able to do simple things without people getting hurt."

Silence hung heavy over the group for a long while. Sam was the first to break it. "It's not your fault, you know."

The Doctor looked up. "Mm?"

Sam shrugged. "You just… it sounded like you thought it was your fault."

The Doctor stared at Sam a long moment, then looked at the floor. "Just… thinking about someone else. Several someone elses."

"You didn't force us to be here, Doctor," Sherlock said. "Nor did we allow ourselves to be dragged along. If we remain it is because we choose to."

"Besides," John added, "You're mad if you honestly think we're going to let you go it alone. Especially after seeing all we've seen."

Sam was already nodding. "Doc, don't get me wrong. Just because it's hard doesn't mean I want out."

The Doctor looked from face to face, back to Sam. "I don't like people getting hurt under my watch. And it happens more than I'd like to admit—"

"That's not your fault," John interrupted.

"You didn't nearly get Dean killed, okay?" Sam said, something changing in his eyes. "That's on Bela."

"And Irene," Sherlock murmured. "Who should not, under any circumstances, be involved in this." He pulled out his cellphone. "Excuse me," he murmured, and disappeared down the stairs to the underside of the TARDIS console.

The Doctor shook his head. "It doesn't matter. If you're with me on this you're going to be targeted. All of you. The people you love."

Sam smirked. "Yeah, well… considering that's just a normal day for me and Dean, I'm not too worried."

John nodded. "Not a chance Sherlock and I are walking out. Especially not after this."

The Doctor looked so much older than they'd ever seen him before. There were years in every inch of his smile and every wrinkle around the corner of his eyes. "Humans," he chuckled. "I don't know if you're all brave or suicidal."

Sam made a face. "We can't be both?"

The Doctor chuckled. "Weell—"

Sherlock walked up the steps, cellphone in hand. "Lestrade again."

John sighed. "What does he need?"

"Missing persons report, just been filed," Sherlock murmured. "Woman's fiancé has gone missing."

Sam frowned. "What did you tell him?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and shrugged his shoulders in perfect unison. "I told him I'd look into it. Sounded promising."

"Promising as in related to our case?" Sam asked.

"Honestly," Sherlock said, busy texting, "no… it sounds unrelated. The woman seems to have suffered a mental break, however. Keeps asking to see a doctor. Lestrade ask that I recommend you."

John held up a hand. "H-hang on, how does that sound promising?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Well, you are a doctor, John."

"Right," the Doctor sighed, bouncing to his feet. "I could use a little distraction for the moment. At least until we find another lead." He began flipping switches on the TARDIS console, stopping at the typewriter to ask, "where are we heading, Sherlock?"

"A video store on the West End," Sherlock said. "I've the address right here. The woman and her fiancé own it. Little place called 'Sparrow and Nightingale's.'"

Sam chuckled. "Cute."

"'Sparrow and Nightingale's,'" the Doctor murmured. "'Sparrow and Nightingale's' why does that ring a bell…?"

"Haven't the slightest," Sherlock said.

The Doctor kept murmuring the name of the shop over and over as he set the coordinates. He grabbed a lever to pull it when he gasped. He spun around to face Sherlock. "Girl? Girl's fiancé went missing?"

"Yes."

"No," the Doctor murmured. "No, nonono, no, no no…" He shook his head. "No! She was supposed to be safe—"

"Whoa, Doc, breathe," Sam said, jumping to his feet. "What's wrong?"

"Sparrow!" he shouted. "We need to get there, right now!"

"Doctor, I don't understand," John said. "Sparrow?"

The Doctor flipped the lever. "Sally Sparrow."

(TO BE CONTINUED)


	5. Chapter 5

"Miss Sparrow?"

The blonde girl started, looking up from where she had been staring at the tabletop. "Mm? Sorry, yes?"

The woman smiled at her, held out a hand. "Sergeant Donavan, Inspector Lestrade assigned me to your case."

"Right," Sally sighed. "Right, um..." She rubbed her eyes with her thumb and index finger. Her head was pulsing from a combination of the poor lighting in the room usually reserved for questioning and, of course, the day's events. She gave a shrug and took a short breath. "Right. How can I help you, Sergeant?"

"I just need to ask you some basic questions," Donavan said, opening a file and pulling out a few pages, all stapled together. "Is that alright?"

"Fine, fine, yeah," Sally mumbled, wringing her hands together.

"Alright," Donavan said. "Don't worry, these are just routine questions. No pressure, but anything you can remember, even if it doesn't seem important, could be very helpful."

"Right."

"Right…" Donavan picked up a ballpoint pen, tested it on the corner of the form before going to the first line. "When did you last see the missing person?"

Sally shrugged, fiddling with the band on her left ring finger. "We, um… we were sorting through backstock. We own a shop together, he and I."

"And how long have you two run this shop?"

"Two years," Sally said with a weary smile. "Since, um… since his sister went missing."

Donavan's eyes flicked up. "His sister also went missing?" On Sally's nod, she asked, "is there an open file number on her case?"

Sally nodded. "Yes, um, its…" She shut her eyes hard then gave a weary little laugh. "I-I don't recall the number off the top of my head—"

"It's alright. Why don't you give me the name and I'll search for the file on the computer."

"It's Kathy, K, A, T, H, Y… Nightingale. N, I, G—"

"Just like the bird, right?" Donavan asked, glancing up.

Sally nodded. "Yeah."

"And your boyfriend—"

"Fiancé—"

"Fiancé, his last name is the same?"

"Yes. First name, Lawrence. L, A, W, R, E, N, C, E. B-but we, um… we all called him Larry."

"So," Donavan said. "Backstock."

"Backstock, right," Sally breathed. "Um… so… we were in the backrooms after close, figuring out which of the DVDs to put on sale, what we needed to order, and…" She shrugged, finger combing the hair from her eyes. "He said he heard something, so… I said I'd go an' call the police. We've had break-ins before; kids mostly. Must thinking we'd keep something in the drawer afterhours. We don't, but... I made the call, and…" She took in a deep breath, rubbing her arms. "When I got back, Larry was gone."

Donovan nodded as she wrote. "And you didn't see anyone?"

"No."

"Is there anyone who would want to harm Larry?"

Sally's throat worked a moment. "Not a _person_ in the world would want to harm Larry."

"You're sure?"

"Certain."

"Alright," Donavan murmured, standing. "We'll need you to stay here, we have a doctor on the way—"

Sally shook her head. "I don't need a doctor."

Donavan frowned, checking the paperwork in her hands. "It says here you asked for a doctor."

Sally shook her head with a bitter laugh, staring at the floor. "No. No, never asked for _a_ doctor."

"Come again?" Donavan asked.

"Nothing," Sally sighed. "It's, um… it's nothing, really. I'd just like to go home now, if that's alright."

Donavan clicked her tongue. "Boss wants you looked at before you head out, Miss Sparrow. You've had a rough day." When Sally didn't say anything, Donavan tucked the folder under her arm and walked back to the table. She placed her hand on Sally's and sighed. "Look, I get you're going through some hard times right now. I really do. But if you really want to help us find Larry, you're going to need to be in good health, alright? So Sally… please? For me?"

Sally was blinking hard, fingers swiping under her eyes as she nodded. "Fine. F-fine, just…" She shook her head. "Fine."

Donavan rubbed her arm. "Thanks, Sally. I'll send him in, and I promise you… you're going to be in good hands."

Sally fidgeted, toying with the skin around her knuckles, feet unable to stay still. Her eyes were drier than hot concrete in the summer, but she couldn't bring herself to blink, not even with that massive wall of one-way mirrored glass. She kept glancing at it, as though something on the other side might be staring back. She couldn't shake the feeling, even moreso after having lied to the officer.

Then again, how does one explain that while going for the phone to dial the police, a statue took her fiancé and then disappeared into the evening? Worse still, how was she supposed to tell them that same creature was still out there? Hunting her?

She hadn't lied about asking for a doctor. She'd _never_ asked for a doctor. She asked for _the_ Doctor. Another large difference they'd lock her into a padded room if she tried to clarify. No, if she was really going to find Larry, these people would be less-than-no help. Worse still, the one man she needed to find… how in the hell did you contact someone like that? It wasn't like he'd given her the number for his mobile.

She pressed her face into her hands with a deep sigh. She wasn't going to cry. She wasn't going to break down. Not here. Not later. Not ever. She just needed to sleep, clear her head, and then figure things out.

A knock on the door made her look up. "Come in," she said, running both hands through her hair then dropping them in her lap.

The door opened and a man, short and blonde, stepped inside. He held one hand behind his back while the other extended toward her in a handshake. "Doctor John Watson. You must be Sally Sparrow."

She sniffed, nodding. "Yes."

"Alright, Sally. I promise, this isn't going to take any time at all." He held a small LED flashlight in one hand, checked each of her eyes, then turned the light off and held up the device by its handle. "Follow it with your eyes." As he moved the flashlight back and forth, he continued. "Have you been feeling any different from usual? Any nausea, numbness or tingling in your limbs?"

Sally shrugged. "Not really, no."

"Fainting or dizziness?"

"No."

The man who was _a_ doctor but not _the_ Doctor picked up her hand, watched his clock while he took her pulse. He looked impressed. "Well. Everything seems to be in order, but… there is another matter. I'm to ask you before I bring in a colleague."

"Another doctor?" Sally murmured. "I thought you said I was fine—"

"You are, trust me, you are," he said, holding up his hands, "but…" He took a deep breath. "Call me crazy, he said you'd want to see him." With significant more weight in his tone, he added, "said you'd want to see a _real_ Doctor."

Sally stared at the man a long moment, eyes narrowing. Her mouth pulled to a small circle and she shook her head. "N…" She stared at him, eyes widening. "No… you don't—you can't mean…"

Doctor Watson gave her a tired smile. "Would you like me to bring him in, Miss Sparrow?"

She nodded, pressing a hand to her mouth.

He rose, walked to the door and disappeared for a moment. When he returned, it was to hold the door open for the tall, skinny man in the blue and brown suit. Sally was on her feet and across the room in an instant, running to the man who was already holding his arms open to her. She grabbed him tight around his middle and for the first time since the whole crazy affair began, she felt tears sting the back of her eyes. He hugged her tightly, stroked her hair and murmured, "hello again, Sally Sparrow."

She shook her head. "Didn't think you'd remember me."

"How could I forget?"

Sally pushed him back, wiping at her face with both hands. "They've got him. Taken him. Larry."

"I know, I heard."

"What do we do now?"

"We'll find something," the Doctor murmured, holding her by the shoulders.

"Doctor, why did they come back?"

"I have a few theories, but for now, it's not safe here. And you need a place to rest that's safe." The Doctor looked around, eyes finally resting on John. "Is she good to be released."

"Yeah," John said. "Yeah, not so much as a hair out of place."

"Sally Sparrow," the Doctor chuckled. "Made of tough stuff, this one. I'll have to tell you the story."

Sally gave a soggy laugh, shaking her head. "I'll tell the story. Though I'd wager it sounds mad from either end."

The Doctor flashed her a wide, wild grin. It sobered before it fully developed and he gave her shoulders a squeeze. "We're going to get him back, Sally. I promise. I owe you."

Sally shook her head. "You don't owe me a thing, Doctor, just… bring him back safe, okay?"

"I'll go let them know she's cleared to go," John said. "She'll just need to sign a few papers and we can be on our way." And with that, he disappeared out the door.

Sally sniffed, rubbing under her eyes. "Thanks for coming back."

"Thanks for not hitting me."

"Do you get that a lot?"

"Eh, more than you'd think." He offered her his arm. "Allons-y, Sally Sparrow."

* * *

><p>"So who is she?" Sam asked the Doctor. They both stood in the doorway watching John pouring a steaming cup of tea first for her, then for him, before sitting down and making small talk.<p>

"A friend," the Doctor said, smiling. "Old friend. Short-time friend, but…" He smiled. "I remember her."

"How did you meet?" Sam asked.

The Doctor sighed. "Very long complicated story."

"Short version?"

"I lost something, she found it, returned it to me, all's well that ends well." The Doctor snapped his fingers. "Oh! And aliens."

Sam sighed. "Good aliens or bad aliens?"

"Nasty bad ones, I'm afraid," the Doctor said, turning at the sound of footsteps behind them.

Sherlock held up a folder. "Case notes."

"That was fast," Sam said. "Back home it usually takes them an hour to get a full-color copy of a case printed, sometimes two or…" His smile fell, eyes narrowing on Sherlock.

Sherlock stared back at Sam, raising an eyebrow. "What?"

"You stole it, didn't you?"

"Possibly."

"Seriously, Sherlock? Stealing from Lestrade? From the Chief Inspector?"

"Of course not," Sherlock said, shrugging. "Stealing from _Sergeant Donovan."_

"Oh, awesome," Sam groaned, rubbing his eyes. "That's just… fantastic, yeah."

"Oh, stop fussing," Sherlock snapped. "You can return it to her tonight when you meet her for drinks."

Sam straightened. "Who said I'm meeting her for drinks?"

Sherlock smirked, giving Sam a once over, eyes flickering over his clothing, hairline, facial features, then back at Sam. "Well, your tie, for starters," he chuckled, then turned right around and began walking away.

Sam looked at the Doctor then took off after the consulting detective. "Sherlock! Sherlock, hey wait!" he shouted as they disappeared down the hall. "What do you mean my tie? What does it say? Hey! Do I look desperate? Eager? _What? Sherlock!"_

The Doctor chuckled to himself, walking over to the kitchen table. He smiled at John and Sally in turn, then asked the girl, "how are you feeling?"

She took a deep breath. "Honestly… a little bit better now that I'm in here and not… well, out there."

"Your diagnosis?" the Doctor asked, looking at John.

John shrugged. "To be perfectly honest, she's fine. Steady hands, nerves of steel. Calm, cool, and collected—"

"Don't oversell me," Sally chuckled into her cup of tea.

"Really, though," John said. "She's brilliant. A little tired, perhaps, but better than most would be in her shoes."

"And how are those shoes doing, Sally Sparrow?" the Doctor asked.

Sally took a shaky breath and set her cup down. "Fine," she mumbled.

John stared at Sally a moment, then cleared his throat and stood. "I'm going to go check on Dean, if that's alright?"

Sally gave him a warm smile as the Doctor slid into the chair across from her. Both were silent until John was gone, then the Doctor reached out and placed a hand over hers. "How are you really, Sally?"

She stared at him a long moment, saying nothing. Her eyes went glossy and her lips trembled. She set the cup of tea onto the saucer with a 'clink' and sniffed loudly. "A-and there go the waterworks," she said with a soggy chuckle, swiping both fingers under her eyes. She shook her head. "Honestly, I don't know how I'm doing right now. It all happened so fast, and…"

"Your fiancé," the Doctor whispered.

Sally's gaze never faultered. Her voice steadied enough to ask one question. "Can you get him back?"

The Doctor swallowed. "I'm going to try, Sally. I'm really, really going to try."

She rubbed her nose, chuckled under her breath. "You know… the first thing I did when it took him? I went back to that old house." She shook her head. "They're still there. All of them, they just—"

"Wait, wait, wait, h-hold up a bit," the Doctor stammered. "Who's still there? Who—?"

Sally didn't say anything for a moment, staring at the Doctor as though he should have already known the answer. When it was clear he didn't understand, she spoke. "The _Angels_."

The Doctor's eyes narrowed. "You think _Weeping Angels_ took him?" he asked

Sally shook her head. "Oh, no… no, I _know_." She grabbed the cup of tea with both hands, now shaking and added, "I _saw_ it."

The Doctor stared at her a long moment. "You… saw it? You saw one of them?"

"They aren't the ones from before, Doctor, I checked, I swear," she stammered, lowering the cup, "I went back to the house, I looked, and they're still there, all of them, I—"

"Shh, shh, Sally," the Doctor said, at her side and putting and arm around her. He pulled her into a tight embrace, rocked her back and forth as she shook silently. "Sally, it's not your fault, alright? It's not."

"It came for us, Doctor. It was in my _home_. Larry told me to get the phone, I was gone for twenty seconds, not even, and I got back and…" She shook her head, pushing away enough to stare at him. "Doctor, he's gone. Larry's gone, he—"

"It's not your fault," the Doctor said, keeping his voice level and taking Sally's face in his hands. "Sally, look at me. Look at me, we're going to find him, alright? I swear it. I will find where he is and I will bring him back."

"Don't swear if you can't," Sally said, her eyes wide. "Please, only swear if you really think you can—"

"Oh, I know I can, and I will," the Doctor said, his voice gone low and dangerous. "We're going to find this Angel, and then we're going to fix this, you understand me, Sally? I'm going to bring Larry back to you. I promise."

Sally sniffed, glancing away for a moment, then back to the Doctor. "Thank you. No, really, I don't… th-thank isn't good enough, it—"

"Sally," the Doctor said, smiling at her. "It's alright. Everything's going to be alright."

She nodded. "Is… there a place I can lie down?" she asked. "I… haven't slept since…" Her words cut short and she cleared her throat. "Is there a place?"

"She can sleep in our room."

The Doctor and Sally turned to see Sam Winchester standing in the hallway entrance toward the private quarters. "Sorry, I… didn't mean to eavesdrop, but…" He gestured at the hall. "It's the last door on the right, Dean's in the… well, in the sick bay and…" Sam shrugged. "I'm… not really tired." He gave them a weak smile. "I think the TARDIS put out fresh sheets on the bed, too, so…"

Sally nodded, standing and gathering her bag and sweater. "Thank you," she murmured, hesitating before shoving her hand out at the very, very tall man. "Sorry, I'm Sally."

"Sam," he said, shaking her hand. "And, uh… don't just think the Doctor's the only one here who's worrying about you. We're here to help. All of us."

Sally smirked, glancing at the Doctor. "And here I thought you travelled with just one girl. Now you've got a whole mess of boys."

"Trust me, I'd rather the girl sometimes," the Doctor said with a little smile and a wink.

"Um, right here," Sam said, laughing.

Sally smiled. "Right. I'll be in the room if anything… turns up, just…" She shrugged, walking backwards down the hall. "Just wake me? Please?"

"Promise," the Doctor said. "Goodnight, Sally Sparrow."

She looked at him a long while, smiling with the little strength she had left. "Thank you, Doctor. For everything." She smiled at both him and Sam, then walked toward the room, disappeared with the quiet closing of a wooden door.

Sam shifted to look at the Doctor. "She going to be okay?"

"She's tough, Sally," the Doctor said. "But I don't want to waste any time in finding this Angel."

Sam stared as the Doctor spun and began walking toward the console room. "Whoa, whoa, wait, sorry? Did you say Angel?"

"The Weeping Angels," the Doctor said. "Very dangerous. Been a while since I tangled with that lot, not looking forward to it, weeeeeeeeeeell, sort of looking forward to it, always a challenge, Weeping Angels."

"Weeping Angels," Sam repeated. "Not like Cas-Angel? That kind of Angel-Angel?"

The Doctor stopped dead in his tracks, spinning to look at Sam. "Wh—no, course not that kind of Angel-Angel, it's a _Weeping_ Angel. They're completely different."

"What's completely different?" Sherlock asked, walking toward the two from an adjacent hall.

"Sherlock! Fantastic!" the Doctor said, clapping both hands on the man's shoulders. "You go find John, meet us at the console."

"What for?" Sherlock asked, frowning.

The Doctor smiled. "We've got a new game to play."

An awkward silence filled the corridor. The Doctor continued smiling as Sam and Sherlock exchanged a look.

Sam cleared his throat. "Yeah, I think you mean 'the game is a foot.'"

"That's… that's basically what I said, wasn't it?"

Sherlock shook his head. "Nnnnnnnno."

Sam clicked his tongue in his cheek. "Big no."

The Doctor looked between the two, pulling a face. "Well, rubbish to the both of you." He looked at Sherlock, pointed and then held up five fingers. "Group meeting. Five minutes."

* * *

><p>Sam and Sherlock both looked up as John entered the room. Sam frowned at the man shuffling in behind John, dressed in fresh, plain clothing and holding an oxygen mask to his face. He started toward his brother, shaking his head. "Dean, what the hell? You're supposed to be in bed—"<p>

"S'fine," Dean said, pulling down the oxygen mask he was pressing to his face in order to speak. "Doc told me I could come."

"Well, _that_ and he wouldn't lie back down," John muttered.

Sam's eyes narrowed on Dean who took a deep breath from the oxygen mask. He shook his head. "You should be _sleeping_, Dean. Seriously, and…" He leaned forward, examining the oxygen mask. Or at least what looked to be an oxygen mask. However there were no tubes, no tanks, just… "Dude, what is that attached to?"

Dean lifted the cup from his mouth with a grin. "Not a damn thing! How nifty is that?" He took another breath from the mask, removed it and waved it about. "Watch, you just put it on and…" He covered his mouth, breathed deeply. Or tried. He ended up in a coughing fit.

John rubbed Dean's back guiding him to a chair alongside the console rails as Sam snorted. "Yeah, super nifty." His tone was light, but his eyes betrayed his concern. He gave his head a little shake and looked at John. "Where did you find that thing, anyway?"

John shrugged, looking increasingly more pleased with himself. "Just… lying there in a cupboard in the sick bay, would you believe?"

"You're joking," Sherlock asked, looking impressed.

John beamed. "Let me tell you, half the things in there? I wouldn't have any idea what to do with them. I was looking for an oxygen machine or… I don't know, something of the like, when the Doctor pointed the drawer; labeled with Dean's name." He leaned forward, shaking his head. "There were no such labels in the room when last I looked." He eyed Dean a long moment, shaking his head with a mild chuckle. "Curiouser and curiouser." He reached up to touch the plastic over Dean's face, frowning. "Still trying to figure out how it works, though. There's some sort of filter in the plasic, I can feel it, and there's a piping or something built into the mask, but it's almost unnoticeable, it's so small."

Sherlock stepped forward along with Sam, both leaning forward to look at the mask.

Dean leaned away from the sudden mass of attention, tugged down the mask to mutter, "dudes… personal space."

Sherlock leaned back with an impressed grunt. "Interesting, but not worth dwelling on. Judging from the design, it's not made of any sort of polyurethane we've access to on _this_ planet. We're likely decades out from being able to actually manufacture anything of the sort."

"Only seven," the Doctor said, walking toward the group. He pulled a face in Dean's direction then looked at John. "Should he be up and about with him being all…?" The Doctor made an awkward expression and strange hand gestures.

Dean glared at the Doctor, flicking the mask from his face with a turn of his wrist. "Dude, _right here."_

John shrugged, ignoring Dean's interjection. "To be perfectly honest, I don't see any reason why not. The longer we can keep him sitting upright or standing, the better." At Dean's smug grin in the Doctor's direction, John added, "but that's not to say he should be allowed to work a case just yet."

Dean's eyes widened, his expression something between rage and disbelief. "Say again, Doc?"

John held the stare for a long while, standing his ground against the other man. "Dean, you're in no condition to deal with _any_ level of physical activity right now." He folded his arms across his chest and gave a small shrug. "And considering the threat level of the sort of things we're tracking… really, I don't see you as being able to be invol—"

"This is bullshit," Dean snapped, looking from face to face with increasing desperation. "I feel _fine_."

"Yeah, well," Sam muttered, shrugging, "you look like crap."

The Doctor smirked at the younger brother and intervened before Dean could retort. "Dean, really. You don't need to drag out the tough-man act."

"It's _not_ an _act_, okay?" Dean said, pulling the mask from his face. He pressed it back, breathed deeply before adding, "I feel fine."

"Clearly," Sherlock drawled, eyes tracing along some wiring of the TARDIS console running along the wall. "That pause to breathe deeply between every other sentence seems entirely normal." He glanced at Dean and raised a single eyebrow. "And you _look_ the absolute picture of health—"

"Alright, that's enough," John grumbled in Sherlock's direction, grateful that Dean just clenched his freehand to a fist and kept breathing through the plastic mask. "Dean," he said, looking directly at the man. "No legwork yet. Seriously." At Dean's wounded expression and clear intent to argue, John held up a hand. "Doctor's orders."

Dean made a face but, for a long while, said nothing. He looked at Sam, then back at John. "Yeah well," he muttered, then took another deep breath from the mask. "You see those bitches, you give them hell for me, yeah?"

John chuckled, patting Dean's shoulder. "That and then some."

"Probably not this time around, though," Sam murmured. "Bela and this Irene woman's trail has gone cold. Beyond cold."

"Surprised?" Dean asked no one in particularly.

"Not really, given past experience with at least one of the two," Sherlock shrugged. "The bad news is if they go to ground, the chance of finding them is… nearly zero-to-none."

Dean's eyebrows went up to his hairline. "Wow."

Sherlock frowned. "What?"

"You're supposed to be big bad consulting genius," Dean chuckled, taking a breath from the mask, then adding, "and you're basically saying you can't find them."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "I'm saying our best hope in finding them is finding the next piece of this apparent relic. And unfortunately, we've yet to hear from your friend."

Dean stared at Sherlock a long moment, before looking at Sam. "Wait, Cas? What happened to Cas?"

"He's probably fine, Dean," Sam said. "Bela just did the little…" He pantomimed the outline of the blood sigil Bela had used to banish Castiel, waved his hand in the center. "Y'know."

"But we haven't heard from him yet?" Dean asked. He took a deep breath from the mask, shaking his head. "Usually it doesn't take this long?"

Sam smirked. "Yeah, well usually we're not hanging out in temporal space in the downtime between jobs, so…"

Dean didn't look particularly satisfied with that answer, but he looked too tired to press the subject. Despite earlier protests, it was clear the socialization was taking his toll on him. He turned to look at the Doctor, looking much more tired than he had just moments before. "Okay, Doc. What have we got?"

"Weeping Angels," the Doctor said. "Not to be confused with _your_ angels," he said as Dean's eyes went wide, "these are _quite_ different." He went to the console began typing away on the typewriter. "Now, imagine a stone statue. About the size of your average human. Just… normal stone. Looks like your religious drawings of angels; robes, wings, androgyny, the whole lot."

"That's what they look like?" John asked, clearly unimpressed. "Angel statues? What do they do? Stare you to death?"

The Doctor smiled. "That's what makes them fascinating. They don't kill you, not really, they just…" He shoved John's shoulder enough to offset the man's balance. "Shove you back in time and let you live yourself to death. See, they feed on _potential_ energy."

"What do you mean?" Sam asked.

"Welllll…" The Doctor swung around to the other side of the console, grabbing the monitor. "Imagine you get caught by one of these angels, yeah? You land somewhere else in time and they absorb all the energy from the life you might have lived in the present."

Sherlock was smiling. "_Incredible…_"

The Doctor returned the same, nearly giddy, smile. "Innet, though?"

"W… hang on," John murmured. He pointed in the direction of the kitchen. "I-is… is that what happened? To this Sally's fiancé? He got zapped back in time?"

The Doctor nodded. "Oh yes. Could be anywhere. I got zapped back to 1969 last time I tangled with one of the buggers. Luckily, I managed to get a hold of Sally, weeeeeeeeeell, I suppose she contacted me, but to be honest, I'm still a bit fuzzy on the timeline—"

"So how do we find him?" Sam asked. "Her fiancée?"

The Doctor scratched under his neck, craned long as he frowned. "Yeah thaaat's… where it gets a bit tricky."

Sherlock frowned. "Meaning?"

The Doctor shrugged. "I've got no idea."

John stepped forward. "Hold on, you just told that poor girl you were going to _find_ her lost fiancé."

The Doctor nodded. "Yeah."

"And now you're telling _us_ you have no idea where he's at or how to find him?"

The Doctor continued to nod. "Mm."

John gave the Doctor a hard look. "So… you _lied_ to her."

The Doctor held up a finger with a knowing smirk. "Not entirely, no." He spun on his heels, all-but skipping over to the console. "So we have no way to track down our lost man-of-the-hour. _Yet_."

"So, you've got a plan," Sam said, already a step ahead of the game.

The Doctor just beamed at them. "All we need to do is track down the angel that zapped him back, put it out of commission—or rather into a big, mirrored box—which should cut off its feeding on the potential energy, get a reading on the flow of energy which should, if I'm right, and," he said, smiling at John, "I am _always_ right, take us right to the time and place where our dearly lost fiancé is trapped. We save the poor lad, keep the angel in storage until the Byzantium can come pick it up from us and transport it to a high-security Justicarn, everyone lives happily ever after in their accurate timelines."

"Great," Dean piped up for the first time in a long while. "So… how do we…" He stopped midsentence, realizing his mistake. "How do _you guys_ take this thing out?"

The Doctor sucked in a deep breath through his teeth. "Aaaand that's where things get complicated." He backpedalled toward the TARDIS console. "So, Weeping Angels, yeah? I told you how they look like statues? They don't only look like them, they're indestructible stone."

"So how do they move?" John asked.

The Doctor held up a finger. "Let me finish. They're indestructible stone… when you're looking at them."

Sam's eyes widened. "Whaaaaaaaaaat…"

The Doctor nodded. "They don't choose to be, mind you, it's just a fact of their biology. One look from any living thing, they have to freeze—it's why they cover their eyes. One look and they get quant—"

"Quantum locked," Sherlock said in unison with the Doctor, eyes wide. "God, that's _amazing_. So then when you turn away? When you're not looking they—?"

"What, they just come to life?" Dean interrupted.

"Yeah, actually," the Doctor said, nodding. "But _more_ than that. They're fast. _Very_ fast." He was shaking his head. "Can't even blink. You blink and its already too late. Poof." He held one hand as a fist up in the air, opened it wide and twisted his hand. "You'll be gone."

"Sounds more like magic than science," Dean mumbled. "Besides, how do you hunt something that can just sneak up on you and… poof you anywhere in time?"

"That's the tricky part, yeah," the Doctor murmured. "The good news is, it's just fed. And it's alone. That's unusual for them, the Weeping Angels, usually they hunt in packs, three to eight of them. This one, though, it's the only one of its kind. The only one left."

"Sally mentioned others," Sam murmured. "At an old house?"

The Doctor was already shaking his head. "No, no, we won't have to worry about them. They're stuck. No unsticking them, not a chance. The good news is we only have the one to deal with. The bad news is… it's going to be a hell of a lot harder to track."

"Any ideas where to start?" John asked.

The Doctor sighed. "Weeeeeeell… just one."

* * *

><p>Bela and Irene were both sitting in the large ballroom on the second floor. Everything was velvet and marble, and she was near-certain that the tables were solid mahogany. Irene considered how it should have seemed strange that, while the building had said condemned on the large orange sign on the front door, the inside of the building was <em>more<em>lavish than many of the pent houses and mansions she'd seen in her experience. And she was largely positive that this ballroom was larger than the building itself was. To say the least, it was odd.

To be honest, she was out of her depth. And she knew it.

She hadn't reacted at the museum when Bela drew runes on the glass with her own blood. Nor later when Bela's eyes had gone solid black. Even as they took the long road home, careful to watch for anyone who might be tracking them, Irene hadn't dared ask what was going on. It was more than she had signed up for and far more than Moriarty had led her to believe. Even going through her text messages didn't tell her anything more than she already knew. Her employer was nothing, save a name: Anthony J. Crowley.

She looked through government records, hacked into three classified databases, and did a google search. Not even so much as a scrap of information attached to the man. No pictures, no journals. Not so much as a receipt for coffee. Everything about the situation made Irene feel that now was the ideal time to turn tail and run. It was the smart thing to do. It was the right thing to do, especially for someone in her line of work. Fighting had been thick along the Iranian border that year. If she left now, it might be years before anyone could realize where she'd gone. Another death feigned and by the time anyone suspected she was not, in fact, dead, she could be halfway around the world a second time over. She did the math, re-did the math, took into consideration every risk and possibility. At this point, she was relatively certain if she ran now, she'd never be caught.

So why wasn't she running?

Irene jumped at the hand that pressed down hard on her knee. She followed the arm up to Bela's smiling face. The woman laughed. "If you don't stop bouncing your knee, I'm going to break your leg, Irene. I swear."

Irene stared at Bela a moment then started to laugh. "Sorry. Sorry, I was just—"

"Don't tell me you're nervous," Bela murmured, still smiling. Her eyes betrayed her concern.

Irene held Bela's gaze, bright and aquamarine. She wanted to tell Bela she shouldn't look at her like that; that she could drown just from looking at those eyes. _Just ask her_, the voice at the back of her head whispered, gnawing at the base of her neck. _Ask her what is really going on._ Irene reached up, pressing a hand against Bela's cheek. The other woman's eyes fluttered a moment, turned her face into Irene's palm. Her skin was cool to the touch, not cold so much as merely _unwarm_. It should have worried Irene. She wanted to be worried. She wanted to ask all the questions that were eating away at her stomach, making her sick and nervous.

Instead, she smiled, ran a thumb across Bela's lower lip. "Of course not," she murmured. A smirk and she added, "how could I be? You're here—"

"Oh, stop," Bela laughed, waving Irene's hand from her face. The movement made her lean forward, her face nearly touching Irene's. For a moment, all Irene could hear was the echo of her blood ringing in her ears. She could feel the coolness of Bela's cheek radiating toward her lips, watched as Bela's smile faded, her mouth turning toward Irene's and lips parting. For a moment, neither so much as breathed. Bela's eyes barely flickered to Irene's, then looked back down to the parted lips, painted blood red. She leaned forward, breath caught in the crosswind of Irene's breathing, and…

Bela suddenly sat upright, turning to look over the marble room. She looked back at Irene, saying nothing. Her eyes told Irene everything she needed to know.

Whoever Anthony J. Crowley was, he was here.

Irene swallowed, wetting the throat she hadn't realized had gone bone-dry while she smoothed out her skirt. Bela tucked a carmel-colored curl over her ear, cleared her throat and turned to face the door, just as it opened.

A short man of average build and dark hair walked into the room, holding a bottle of expensive wine and gesturing with it. "Found a little something we could pair with any… post-Opera entertainment we choose to take up this w…" He stopped, blinking and turning the bottle in his hands. "You're not Jim."

It was Irene's turn to blink. She looked at Bela, who was equally confused, then back at the man. "N… no. Decidedly not, in fact."

The man's eyes narrowed on her, and he gave a soft sigh. "Well that's rubbish," he grumbled, setting the bottle of wine down next to an expensive piece of art on a display table. He started toward them again, hands in the pockets of his suit coat. "Apologies, I was expecting someone else. You are?"

"Irene Adler," she said, standing and offering her hand as he stepped into the seating area. He took her hand over the coffee table and she flashed him a winning smile. "I'm Mr. Moriarty's liaison."

Crowley smirked. "Which would explain why you're here with Miss Talbot, of course. Why don't you have a seat."

Irene settled back into the sofa as Crowley took the seat opposite them, an oversized executive-style chair with arms that were as wide as the man's torso. The sheer size of the chair was enough to intimidate. Factoring in the man in the black suit only made the situation more tense.

He leaned back in the seat, steepling his fingers on his abdomen. "I take it you have a little something for me."

Bela snapped open her clutch, reaching in the bag and removing the item, now bound in cloth. Without so much as a word, she held the item out to Crowley.

He took it from her outstretched fingers, leaned back in his chair and began to untangle the fabric from around the fragment. It dropped into his open palm. He examined the metal, held it to the light and tapped it against his knuckles. Once he appeared satisfied with the find, he began wrapping the metal again. "Thanks, dove," he said, tucking the piece into the inner pocket of his suit coat. "I take it you didn't encounter too much trouble?"

Bela shrugged. "None at all."

"That is, nothing we couldn't handle," Irene added.

Crowley's mouth went small and he looked from Irene back to Bela. "So… we _did_ encounter trouble. Is that what I'm to understand?" When Bela didn't respond, he snapped, "does this trouble have a name, by chance?"

"Holmes," Irene said. "Sherlock Holmes, and he's no trouble at all." She tucked one ankle behind the other and puffed out her chest. "I've taken care of him more than my fair share of times."

"Good," Crowley said, though he only seemed to half be paying attention. "Any other problems?"

Bela tossed her hair over her shoulder and cleared her throat. "Nothing that will cause us any further grief."

Crowley gave a soft laugh. "Now… I don't think you girls are listening to a word I'm saying. I've asked _whom_ the problems you two encountered are. Not whether or not we can _handle_ them—I will be the judge of whether or not we can handle them, not you—so I'm going to ask one more time, and one more time only… who. are. our. _probl…_?" His gaze went beyond them, to the far end of the room. In a moment, he was on his feet, buttoning his suit coat and putting on his best salesman-smile. "Cas. To what to I owe the incredibly ill-timed, dubious pleasure?"

Irene had only enough time to turn to look in the direction behind her when she was suddenly in the air. She came to a rapid stop, pressed hard into now-broken stone and mortar of the wall. She coughed and there was blood in her mouth. Before she could move, there was a hand on her throat, lifting her up off the ground until her feet no longer touched. She clawed at the wrist, fingers struggling to pull his off of her neck. Everything was happening so fast. Her vision was all red and black, quickly desaturation to sold grey tones. The man in the trenchcoat held her up by her throat, his blue eyes like fire and his teeth clenched and bared like an animal's.

"Where are they?" he gritted out.

Irene gasped for a breath, which only earned her another wave of pain as she was slammed into the wall a second time. She felt one of her shoes teeter on her toes before clattering to the ground. Her legs started going numb.

The hammer of a gun cocking back echoed in the ballroom and Castiel turned toward the sound, his hand not moving from the woman's throat.

Bela was aiming a gun directly at the angel's head. "Recognize it?" she snapped. "Your friend, Lucifer, dropped it in Missouri." She smiled, an expression that was far more of a threat than a friendly gesture. "I suggest you put her down. _Now_."

"Yours is the next neck I snap if you do not give me answers," Castiel said.

Crowley was looking over the whole scene with wide eyes, jaw dropped, until at that moment, he finally exploded, bellowing, "_WHAT THE BLOODY HELL IS GOING ON HERE?"_

Castiel ignored him, turning his attention back to Irene. "Tell me what you have done with them!"

"You stupid ox!" Bela shouted. "You're _crushing_ her_windpipe_! Put her down! Now! Or so help me, I'll empty this whole fucking gun into y—!"

In a moment, Castiel was across the room, one hand twisting on the wrist that held the Colt, the other pressed to Bela's forhead. Her mouth dropped open in a silent scream, eyes flashing with blinding white light. Castiel's expression twitched and he glanced at where Crowley was standing, right beside him, hand white knuckled on Castiel's shoulder.

"You touch one of my people, you can call this whole deal of ours off," Crowley snapped. "I can hand your feathery arse over to Raphael's goon squad any time I please… so… why don't we all take a deep breath, let the ladies take a powder, and you and I talk about this? Mm?"

Castiel's eyes went from Crowley, back to Bela. The glowing had stopped, but his hands hadn't moved. "We have nothing to discuss, Crowley. My business is with this charlatan—"

"And that charlatan is a member of my business organization," Crowley hissed. "So you drop her… or I drop you. Your choice."

Castiel's jaw clenched. For a long while he stood there, not moving. Not blinking. He stepped back, removing his hand from Bela's forehead and the other from her wrist. But not before twisting the Colt out of her grip. He shoved the gun at Crowley's chest, eyes narrowed to dangerous slits. "If this is aimed at me a second time, I will destroy the gun. Permanently."

"Noted," Crowley muttered, watching the angel walk toward the seating area. He looked to where Bela had run to the human lying on the floor, coughing. There was a deep purple bruise forming on her neck, and blood dribbling from her right nostril. He shook his head, tucking the Colt into the back of his pants before walking back toward the angel. "Now," he said in as polite a tone as he could manage, sitting on the arm of his chair and glaring. "Why are you here trying to kill my associates?"

"Where are the Winchesters?" Castiel snapped.

Crowley was careful not to let his face betray his confusion. "In America drinking cheap beer and sleeping with cheaper women while celebrating their latest triumph over evil, I would imagine."

"Do not _lie_ to me, Crowley," Castiel growled, stepping toward the demon.

Crowley held up both hands, already on his feet. "Cas, you need to calm down. Clearly, you're not thinking straight—"

"I know of your plan," Castiel said. "Reassembling the spear is more than dangerous, it's _foolish_—"

"It's _brilliant_, and _not_ what we're discussing right now," Crowley snapped. "Why the hell do you come here, essentially kick in my door, _break_ my fancy walls, and start yelling at me about the Winchester's for? Recap, Castiel_! I hate the blood Winchesters! That's why I'm here and not back in America researching Purgatory, remember?"_ He took a deep breath, running both hands over his face before pressing them together and placing his hands under his chin. "Cas… _Cas_, you're really… starting to be more trouble than your worth."

"We had an agreement."

"And I'm upholding that agreement."

"The Spear was not in the agreement."

"So sue me," Crowley snapped. "A little deviation with mass returns way above either of our paygrade and a one-hundred percent guarantee your little ass-clowns in the crap black car won't find out. How about you show a little_gratitude_?"

"Sam and Dean are here."

Crowley stared at Castiel, watched him mouth as though he hadn't understood a word that had just been said. He waited for him to say something else. Nothing came. He pinched the bridge of his nose. "I'm sorry, I misunderstood you, I thought you just said the Winchesters were _here_. As in… _not_ in America."

"And your two… _business associates_ have done something to them."

Crowley was shaking his head. "Sorry, I'm still coming to terms with that first part. How, exactly, did the Winchesters end up _here_? Seriously? How?" He pointed at a window. "I've got over ten demons in customs on both the American and the British side, and if anyone had spotted one of the buggers, they'd have phones me up before you could tell me bob was your uncle. Now either I'm working with a bunch of useless morons… or you're telling me a lie."

"It is neither," Castiel said. "They are travelling with a Timelord."

Crowley's eyes narrowed. He leaned back, eyes examining Castiel's face for any sign of falsehood. When he spoke, his tone had changed completely. It was quiet. Almost reverent. Or perhaps it was merely disbelief. "A Timelord?" he whispered. "That's not possible. They're all dead. All of them."

Castiel shook his head. "Records and legends claim one survived."

"What, and he just… came here on holiday?"

"You believed you would be able to harvest these creatures for their souls and that no one would notice?"

Crowley wasn't sure what was more irritating; the fact that Castiel had begun to learn how to be snarky, or the fact that when he was snarky, his tone remained utterly void of emotion. He shrugged. "Doesn't change a thing—"

"It changes everything!" Castiel snapped.

Crowley shifted his weight from one foot to the other. "Perhaps… but it doesn't explain what you're doing here, killing my best girl."

Castiel looked over at Bela, who had carried a very disoriented Irene to the couch and was doing her best to check her injuries, then he looked back at Crowley.

Crowley's eyebrows went up. "Oh, I see. It's okay for you to snap the necks of my pets, but if anyone so much as looks at your little friends the wrong way, it gets personal. Do you know how bloody childish you are? I mean—"

"Where are they?" Castiel snapped.

"Well considering up until this moment, I had no idea that the Winchesters were anywhere but 'Who Cares, USA,' I'm certain I have no idea."

"She knows."

Crowley shrugged. "Fine. Bela!" He didn't look back at her as he shouted, nor as he spoke. "What did you and your friend do with the Winchesters? Nothing too deadly, I hope?"

"We didn't do a damn thing," Bela snapped.

Castiel stepped toward her, stopped by Crowley' hand on his shoulder. "Do. _not_. lie to me—"

"It's the truth!" Bela shouted. "When we drove away from that shore they were alive. All of them. The Winchesters and their friends."

"Oh fantastic," Crowley drawled. "They're here _and_ they are making friends."

Castiel shouldered past Crowley. "If they have not been harmed, why can't I find any one of their companions?"

Bela lifted her chin. "Timelord. Do your research. They have temporal hideouts. Dimensions outside of this one. If they're in one of those, you're not going to be able to see them at all until they step back out. No matter how many souls you swallow just to _get it up_." Castiel took one threatening step toward Bela and she was on her feet, standing in front of Irene, hands gone to fists and eyes gone hollow black. "Try it, Angel-boy," she snapped. "You send me to the pit and you'll never get those souls you need to take down your big brother."

The muscle in Castiel's jaw twitched, his whole face a mask of rage. He looked at Crowley, eyes narrow. "This conversation isn't over."

There was a sound of wings and Castiel was gone.

Crowley groaned. "Angels. Never working with them again once this is over, so help me." He nodded at Bela. "Keep me posted. I expect the second piece before the week is out."

Bela's eyes widened. "But we—"

"I'm sorry," Crowley said with a wry chuckle, "you must have me mistaken for _someone who accepts failure!_" He ran a hand over his mouth, composing himself enough to murmur, "you have one week to get me results. Pick up the pace and steer clear of the Winchesters because next time…" He shrugged. "I might just feed you to him."

Not a sound or warning and Crowley was gone.

Bela swore quietly, turned back to the couch where Irene was lying, gently fingering the dark bruises on her neck. She gave Bela a weak smile, but her eyes were filled with fear. "Perhaps it's time I asked what is actually going on."

Bela swallowed, giving Irene a nervous smirk. "I thought you didn't like to know the details of high-risk business transactions."

Irene's smile withered. Her throat worked and she whispered. "I've changed my mind."

Bela nodded slowly. After a moment, she looked over her shoulder, then back at Irene. "He left the bottle here."

Irene's smile was tired and distant, but still warm. "I'll get the bottle, you find the glasses." She touched Bela's face again, let her thumb run over the thick swell of Bela's lower lip. "And I want the whole story, Bela. You owe me that much."

Bela blinked at the eyes threatening to gloss her vision. She let out a bitter laugh. "I'm afraid if I tell you that, you won't like me very much any longer."

"Oh, my dear," Irene murmured, pressing her forehead's to Bela's. "I don't think it is possible for me _not_ to like you."

A long moment passed with neither speaking. Bela's breath was cold and smelled vaguely of mint leaves and sulfur. Irene wanted to lean into it, to taste that breath and take it into her body. She wanted to bite those thick lips until they were red, suck on them until they were pink again, and…

Irene cleared her throat, her pulse pounding loud enough that she was certain Bela would hear it. She shuddered. "I'll be needing that drink now."

Bela's eyes fluttered and she nodded, doing her best to keep from outright running. "I'll find the glasses."

* * *

><p>"Sparrow and Nightingale's," the Doctor said, nodding at the building in front of them, a small brick shop with large glass windows and a neon sign that, when on, read "Now Playing" in red, white, and purple. The lights, however, were not on, and the inside of the building was dark.<p>

"Perfect," John murmured. "So how do we get inside?"

"On it," Sam muttered, pulling his lockpicking set from his pocket and heading toward the door in the alleyway.

Sherlock smiled at John and the Doctor and started after Sam. The Doctor did the same. It was only John who stood his ground and ran both hands over his face. "Is that it, then? We've taken to breaking into places now?"

The three, now huddled around the door, exchanged rapid looks of concern and confusion, then in unison, turned back to John. Sherlock shrugged. "And?"

John cast them a dark look, and snapped, "we've got someone who actually, in fact, has a key to this place…" He pointed at the TARDIS. "Right in there. Maybe seven steps away.

"Yeah, but she's tired," Sam said. "And probably sleeping."

The Doctor was nodding. "Best not to inconvenience her."

"And if we get caught?" John asked. "Last I checked, lock picking isn't exactly the most efficient way to enter a place you're not meant to."

The Doctor smirked at John. Twiddling his sonic screwdriver between his fingers, he stepped between Sam and the door and pointed the device at the knob. It made a high-pitched whirring sound, and less than two seconds later, the door creaked open.

Sherlock eyed the sonic screwdriver. "When can I have one of those?"

The Doctor clicked his tongue and shook his head. "You… still have my psychic paper."

"That's not an answer."

The Doctor smirked. "Nor will it ever be. Now come on, chaps. Time's a-wasting."

"Find anything?" Sam asked as John walked into the backroom.

He shook his head. "No. Well, nothing out of the ordinary. A few rare vinyl recordings, a case in the corner with some maquettes and the like, but no statues. Certainly no statues of anything resembling an angel."

Sam turned and called out, "Hey Doc, they do look like angels, right?"

The Doctor popped out from behind a display of DVDs. "What's that?"

"Weeping Angels," Sam repeated. "They look like angels, right?"

"No," the Doctor said. "Well, yes, I mean, they look like the angels on top of your churches and in the graveyards, so yes, but they don't look like your friend in the trenchcoat, so…"

"So they look like the clichéd angels," Sam repeated for clarification's sake.

The Doctor nodded.

John smiled at Sam. "Then I am happy to report that there's nothing out of the normal."

"Good and _not_ so good," the Doctor mumbled. "Nothing means safe, but it also means a dead end."

Sherlock came up from the stairs to the basement, smiling like a child on Christmas.

John frowned at him. "Found something."

Sherlock just continued to smile, then disappeared back down into the basement.

Sam sighed. "Guess that's our cue to follow him."

Sherlock gestured. "See?"

No one said anything for a long while. It was Sam who broke the silence. "It's a wall."

"Wh…" Sherlock glared at him. "Of course it's a wall! But don't you see?"

"See what, Sherlock?" John asked. "The hideous wallpaper? The pictures on the wall? What?"

Sherlock looked over the confused faces. "My God, it must be so boring in your heads, not noticing. Or perhaps I'm the only one who noticed before time changed."

"What do you mean?"

"The picture in the file," Sherlock said, stepping toward the Doctor. "Do you remember it? There was a picture inside of it, one of Sally and her fiancé remodeling this basement."

"Yeah, so?" Sam asked.

The Doctor's eyes had gone all bright and a smile was turning up his expression. "Sherlock Holmes, you are, in fact, a genius!"

"A proper genius, as I was reliably informed," Sherlock said with a shrug and a little roll of his eyes. Despite his tone, he was smiling.

"Okay, and for the not-so-proper geniuses in the room?" John snapped.

The Doctor turned toward the wall. "See where the wallpaper is curling away from the edge there?"

"Yeah, wallpaper does that," Sam muttered.

"But this morning there was only this wallpaper covering the wall. So where did this second layer come from?"

"Who wants to guess that there's a message under there from our man Larry?" the Doctor smirked.

Sherlock chuckled under his breath. "I'll go fetch a bucket of hot water, should be enough to take this clean off, glue and all."

"We'll get to tugging," the Doctor said with a nod to Sam.

Sam and he grabbed for the corner at the top of the wall while John began tearing off the other edges that were starting to curl. "How the hell did he notice that?" Sam asked to no one in particular. "I'd never have noticed something like that. Besides," Sam added, turning to face the Doctor. "If that is a new layer of wallpaper, how come he noticed that? I-I mean, time just got re-written, shouldn't we have just thought that there have always been two layers of wallpaper?"

The Doctor smiled, clapped a hand on Sam's shoulder. "Oh, Sam. Sam Winchester. "You're a time traveller now. Changes your eyes, how you see things."

"What, like, 'A Sound of Thunder,' don't step on a butterfly or I'll end up on a beach weeping over a broken Statue of Liberty."

The Doctor snorted. "You've been read too much sci-fi, Sam."

"So it doesn't work like that?" John asked. "We go back in time and… everything going to still be just fine?"

The Doctor pulled a face. "Well certain things can't be changed or altered. There are set events."

"Like what?"

"Wellllll, like…" He clapped his hands. "World War II, right? It's not like I could just show up and put Hitler in a cupboard until the war ends, right?"

John raised an eyebrow. "You couldn't?"

The Doctor shrugged. "Probably not, I dunno. But it's a big event, y'understand? Big events you just… don't fiddle with. The small things are fine, for the most part, but—"

"So how do you know the difference?" Sam asked.

The Doctor gestured at himself. "Time Lord."

"So, what, it's like part of your biology, or—?"

"Hold up a moment," John muttered, tearing off another fistful of wallpaper. "It looks like Sherlock was right, there's… hold on, there's a message under here. Sam, Doctor, help me with this, will you?"

The three began tearing off the wallpaper in handfuls.

"We're not even going to need any hot water at this rate," John commented.

"How did this guy know to leave a message like this?" Sam murmured. "I mean, this is some kind of brilliant."

"Same way I left Sally a message last time this happened," the Doctor said, tearing loose the whole first layer of paper, then starting work on the second layer.

Sam's eyesbrows went up. "Really? What did you tell her?"

The Doctor smirked. "Duck."

The three stepped back from the pile of old wallpaper and stared at the message written in black paint.

'_Sally, find the Doctor. All my love, Larry (1891)'_

"1891," Sam said, echoing all their thoughts. "He's stuck in 1891-London. Is that enough to find him?"

The Doctor shook his head. "Not until the angel is dealt with, I'm afraid. Bringing him back now would just create a paradox, and trust me… no one wants to deal with a paradox."

John stepped back up to the wall. "Hold on…" He began pulling down the last bit of wallpaper that remained. "There's more message under here."

Sam glanced over his shoulder at the stairway. "Thought Sherlock would be back before now. He's going to love this."

The Doctor made a soft sound in the back of his throat and he shook his head. "Strange… should have been back by now. Wonder if he—"

"_These angels are rubbish_," John read aloud from the wall. "_Hurry up and come find John and I before I go positively mad. Sincerely…_ _Sherlock H_—wait, Sherlock? Sherlock, wrote this. Doctor, how can Sherlock have written this, how…" John went white. "Oh, bollocks."

* * *

><p>They'd searched every inch of the shop, but there was neither hide nor hair of Sherlock Holmes. John turned to the Doctor, shouting, "how can he just be gone? He was just here!"<p>

"The angel must have gotten him," the Doctor murmured.

"Yeah, about that," John snapped. "That note on the wall, it said to come and pick up 'me and John.' Me. And. John." He held his arms out to his sides. "I'm still here, gentlemen, so what in the _hell_ did that note mean? Am I going to be abducted by the stone alien, a-am I going to just… poof, l-like the thing in the picture? I mean, just what in the hell is going on?"

Sam put out both arms. "Okay, John… you need to calm down—"

"I AM CALM. I AM ABSOLUTELY CALM, I…" He took a sharp breath, walking himself in a circle before looking at Sam with a slightly manic smile. "You know what I need?"

"No, John. What do you need?"

"I need a _drink_."

"You need no such thing," the Doctor admonished. "What we need is to remain calm, and right now, John… you are not calm."

"You know why I'm not calm?" John said, rounding on the Doctor. "Because I heard you talk to that girl, and I heard you tell her it was all going to be alright, but you know what, it's not alright, okay? It's not, because Larry is still gone, that angel is still on the loose, and now it's got Sherlock."

"Well technically, it doesn't have Sherlock," the Doctor said. "It just sent him back in time to feed on the potentially energy left in his—"

John waved both arms in front of him and made a strangled sound that indicated he wanted the Doctor to stop talking. "No! No, I don't care about the science. That girl's fiancé is gone. Now Sherlock is gone. And according to his note, I'm going to get got next. And thus far, we're _no closer_ to catching it."

Sam's eyes suddenly lit up and he dashed out of the room and back down to the basement.

John groaned, hurrying to the top of the stairs and shouting down at Sam. "Sam Winchester, where are you going?"

"We missed something!" Sam shouted back, but he was nowhere to be seen.

John looked at the Doctor who merely shrugged, then started down the stairs. John followed the Doctor to where Sam was on his knees in front of Sherlock's inscription, tearing loose the last of the wallpaper. "Sam," John asked, frowning. "What are you doing?"

Sam stopped what he was doing, turning to look at John. He sighed. "Um… okay, so… I get what you're saying, right? I get that you're distressed. We're all distressed, but… doesn't this all seem a little… un-Sherlock-y? I mean, if he was sent back in time, it…" He made a face. "Well, it doesn't seem like Sherlock to just write a note without leaving a clue."

John shook his head. "And what clue would he leave? I-I mean, it's not like he can tell us anything we don't already know about his abduction—"

"What if he wasn't telling us about his abduction, though?" Sam said, smiling. "I-I mean, yeah. We already know about his."

"And?" John asked.

Sam turned and with one final tug, pulled the last corner of the wallpaper down. In the same black paint as before, there was written one last notation: _St. Paul's 2:31 AM Friday 21, January, 2011_.

"That's two days from now," the Doctor mumbled.

"Less than," John said.

Sam shrugged. "And anyone want to wager that's the day John gets caught?"

"I take it that's our lead, then?" John muttered. "Use me as bait and draw out the angel according to the grand scheme, is that it?"

"Well, it's the closest thing we've got to a plan right now," Sam muttered. "Come on, let's get back to the TARDIS."

* * *

><p>"What do you mean <em>gone<em>?" Dean asked. "You mean, like… took off without telling us again or—"

"Like _touched-by-an-angel-and-yanked-back-in-time_ gone," Sam explained.

Dean pulled a face. "Well, that _blows_."

John kept pacing along the side of the kitchen, shaking his head. "Shouldn't have let him wander off like that."

"John," Sam said, "you couldn't have stopped him if you tried. And no one could have known what he was getting himself into, alright?"

"No," John snapped, turning. "That's just it, isn't it? We knew, I mean, the Doctor kept telling us all this information about these angels, and we just… let him wander off like that?"

"Alright, that's enough shouting for the moment," Sally murmured, carrying a fresh pot of tea to the table where Sam and Dean were sitting. "John, why don't you sit down."

John's jaw worked a moment in silence, then he walked directly to the table and plopped into a chair without so much as another word.

Sally sighed. "Well, frustrations and fears aside, no one seems to have caught on to the good news."

Dean frowned. "What good news?"

"1891," Sally said as she began pouring cups for each of the men at the table. When no one commented on this, she added, "don't you see? He's still alive. And safe. They both are," she said, looking at John, and giving him a warm smile. "Yours _and_ mine."

John stared at her a moment, mouthing her last words before shaking his head. "S.. sorry? Wh... n-no. _No_, Sherlock and I, we aren't—"

Sally's eyes went wide and her face turned a brilliant shade of pink. "Oh! Oh God, you're not?"

"No. God, no, we… why, do we—?"

"No! No," she gasped, pressing both hands to her face. "God, I didn't mean to… sorry, I shouldn't have just assumed that—I-I mean I didn't want to imply that—"

"Don't sweat it," Dean smirked over his cup of tea. "The only way those two could be more gay is if they were _gay_." Dean laughed at his own joke, only stopping when he saw the look Sam was giving him. John and Sally were giving him much the same look. Dean's smile vanished and he cleared his throat. "So, uh… now what? These angels, I'm guessing they aren't just going to stand around waiting on us, right?"

"Right," John muttered.

Dean looked from Sam to John, then shrugged. "Soooo… we got a plan, or…?"

"A rough plan," Sam muttered.

"Cool," Dean said. "Hit me."

No one said anything.

Sally gave a nervous smile. "Well come on, it can't be that bad."

John sighed. "We're going to use me as bait."

Dean blinked. "Sorry?"

"Sherlock wrote on the wall that John was with him," Sam explained.

Dean shook his head. "But… dude, John's with us."

"Yeah, but in the time Sherlock is in, John's already been sent back in time by this angel," Sam said.

Dean's kept tilting to the side until his head was nearly at a ninety-degree angle. When this failed to produce a life-changing epiphany, he snapped, "you're not making _any_ sense."

"No, he's making perfect sense," Sally sighed. When Dean gave her a look, she smirked at him. "Been through this before, remember? The Doctor explained it any everything."

"Really?" John asked. "And how did he explain it?"

Sally sighed, setting down her cup. "Well, most people think of time like a line, right? Events go by, 'A,' 'B,' and 'C.' But that's not how time works at all. It's like a ball, right? A big ball of wibbly-wobbly… timey-whimey… stuff right okay," she chuckled, shrugging her shoulders to her ears, "yeah, I've watched that video of him a billion times over and it still doesn't make much sense."

"No, no it makes perfect sense," Sam said, smiling. "Like… like how time curves, right? Why can't it also fold back on itself? A wrinkle in time and stuff like that, right?"

Dean stared at Sam. "God, you're so weird."

Sam's expression fell, but before he could respond, the Doctor walked into the room. "We've got a visitor!"

The table turned to see Castiel walk into the room, looking around at the structure as though he'd never seen such a thing before. "This is a thing most strange," he was saying to the Doctor. "And you do not know where this temporal space exists in actuality."

"It doesn't have to exist," the Doctor explained. "It's all relative. See consider that time isn't a strict progression of line, it's more like a big ball of wibbly-wobbly timey-whimey—"

"Okay, stop," Dean said, throwing up his hands. "Just stop, okay? None of you are making any sense."

Castiel turned on the spot and walked directly to Dean until he was standing beside him, barely an inch between them. "What happened to you?"

Dean shrugged. "Nearly got drowned by a couple of bitches. Y'know, the usual. What about you, you look all…" He chuckled. "Well, don't take this the wrong way, Cas, but you look like you went running through a crowd of psychotic fangirls."

Castiel looked down at his trenchcoat, the sleeve torn off the edge, and his shirt and tie, more loose than usual. He reached up to button his shirt again as he began explaining. "I was looking for you and Sam."

Sam frowned. "Yeah, speaking of which, how _did_ you find us?"

"I didn't," Castiel said. "I found Sherlock. In 1891."

Sally was on her feet at the same moment as John, both asking questions in rapid succession. "Did you see Larry?" "How is he? Is he alright?" "Did he seem himself?" "Was he safe?" "How is he—?"

"Both Larry and Sherlock are well," Castiel murmured. He looked at John and nodded. "You are well as well."

John blinked and took a step back. "I'm… sorry, I'm already there?"

"Of course," Castiel said. "You were the one who informed me where the TARDIS was parked currently."

Dean pressed a hand to his head. "Sorry, hold up. You went back in time, so future John could tell you where past John and us were and then you came back forward in time to find us?"

"Clearly," Castiel said.

"Brilliant, innet?" the Doctor beamed.

"So, wait," Sam said, holding up a hand. "What happened to your coat?"

Castiel looked at the sleeve again, then back at the group. "The witch, of course."

The group fell quiet.

"Oh yeah," Dean said, nodding. "The witch, of course, how could we forget?"

Castiel's eyes narrowed. "That is sarcasm."

Dean smirked and reached up to pat Castiel's unshaven cheek, smiling at the others. "Ain't 'e a peach?"

"Sorry," John said, shaking his head. "So… Sherlock, Larry, and I are trapped in turn-of-the-century London fighting a witch, and you _left_ us?"

"Sherlock and Holmes seemed to have the situation under control," Castiel said.

"What do you mean 'and'?" Sam asked.

"There are two of them," Castiel explained. "There is the Sherlock Holmes of this age, and the Sherlock Holmes of that age."

John blinked. "Are we being metaphorical, or…?"

"I do not understand what that means."

"So there's two Sherlock's in the past now?" Sam asked, voice rising in pitch to near hysteria.

Sally was picking up the now-empty pot with a groan. "Right. Need something stronger than tea right about now."

Castiel looked at John, pressed his mouth to a small, apologetic line. "You told me you were quite distressed upon your arrival in London."

John ran both hands over his face nodded. "Mm. Yeah, distressed. I can see that." He sighed, looking at the angel. "Did I happen to mention anything else? Like how I'd, ah… gotten into this situation?"

Castiel stared at John a long moment, then looked away to think. "You mentioned that you were taken in the trap, but you did not know if it was successful."

John gave a significant look to the Doctor and Sam. "So… no guarantee that this will work."

"No, but we've already done it once before, it sounds like," Sam murmured. "Wouldn't want to disappoint history, would we?"

"I'm getting a headache just thinking about all this," Dean mumbled as Sally returned with a bottle of whiskey.

She held it up. "Looks strong enough for our needs." She sighed. "Let's take a seat, boys, and discuss how all this madness is going to play out, mm?"

"Agreed," Dean muttered, snatching the bottle out of her hands. "Get some glasses, sweetie. It's gonna be a long chat."

Sally stared at him a long moment. "Tell you what instead… you call me sweetie again, I'll break the bottle over your head, yeah?"

John rolled his eyes. "Ignore him. _I'll _get the glasses."

"You ever get the feeling it's going to be a long night?" Dean muttered to Sam.

Sam sighed. "Only every time you open your mouth."

* * *

><p>"I've still got a bad feeling about this," John muttered.<p>

"Explain to me again, and be serious this time," Castiel said as Dean adjusted the collar on his black shirt, "why are we dressed like this?"

"Because we're priests today," Dean said, slipping the white fabric into Castiel's collar.

Castiel just continued to look more confused. "I-I don't understand. I am no priest. And as I understand the Anglican priesthood, you are not eligible for priesthood in your current state."

Dean gave Castiel a look, but was cut off by Sally.

"It's just pretending to be priests," she said, smoothing out the front of his shirt with a calm smile.

Castiel looked at the ground and gave a little sigh. "You mean we are lying," he said simply.

She pursed her lips, looking at the others.

"It's our way of trying to be inconspicuous," John said. "It's a lie, but it's only a little white one."

Castiel blinked. "Lies do not possess any distinguishable color or size."

"That means it's not a big deal," Sam explained.

"And it's not the first lie we've told to get into a place," Dean said. "Besides." He smirked at Castiel and smoothed the shirt over his shoulders. "Someone needs to look pretty while we search the place."

John snorted.

Dean glanced in his direction. "What?"

John shrugged and shook his head. "Oh, nothing. Not a thing."

"So," Sally said, folding her hands behind her back. "You boys search the place." She smiled. "And I'll keep the TARDIS running."

"You really think pitting an angel against a weeping angel will work?" Sam asked the Doctor.

The Doctor shrugged. "No idea. But considering that he's blinked maybe three times since he knocked on the door to the TARDIS, he's a valuable asset."

"Okay, let's get this over with," John sighed, shrugging on the suit coat over his black shirt. "Now, remember, if we get caught, you three," he said, pointing at Castiel, Dean, and Sam, "are from the states on a trip and wanted to see St. Paul's before you go home. But you were in an accident," he said, motioning to Dean, "and now you can only see it after hours, and you asked us to show you 'round." He looked at the Doctor. "And if anyone asks, we're—"

"Transfers from the Scotland priesthood," the Doctor beamed, putting on his best Scottish accent.

"That's almost convincing," Sally smirked.

Dean shook his head. "You guys all sound the same to me."

John sighed. "And that, Dean, right next to the FBI agent who held a gun to my head, is why I am not particularly fond of Americans."

Sam made a face. "Really?"

John smiled. "You're the exception, Sam."

Sam looked at Dean with a smug grin, to which Dean merely rolled his eyes. "Alright guys, enough of the chatty bullshit and let's get to work. And remember, let's try to be inconst… incos… in—"

"Inconspicuous, Dean," the Doctor said.

Dean turned, glaring at the Doctor.

The Doctor smiled, nose wrinkling. "You sure are a joy to be around, Dean."

"Okay, boys, enough," Sally said. She checked her watch. "Alright, it's two in the morning. You've got a little over thirty minutes before John goes missing."

John sighed. "Is anyone thinking maybe we should try to protect me?"

"Well, you've already been taken, haven't you?" Sam said.

"No, I'm right here."

"But you're supposed to be taken, right? I mean that wall said on it that you were with Sherlock, so—"

"But I'm not with him! Maybe I don't have to b—"

"Alright! Stop it, stop it, stop, just!" Dean rubbed his temples. "You're giving me a _headache_. Now let's find these stone douchebags and finish this, okay?"

Sally sighed. "Oh! Hold on…" She disappeared inside the TARDIS, and reappeared with a velvet bag.

"What's in there?" John asked.

"Protection," Sally said. "Found them while I was rifling through the kitchen drawers."

"Found what, exactly?" Dean asked.

Sally hefted the first item out of the bag; it was a large, round serving plate made of silver shined to such a sheen that Dean could see his confused expression in it.

"Cool, so… we're waiters _and_ priests?"

Sam snatched up the plate and held it up. "Reflection, Dean," he said. "The angel's can't move in the sight of any living thing."

"Including themselves," Sally smirked.

The Doctor pulled her into a tight hug, laughing. "Oh, Sally Sparrow… you smart little thing, look at her!" he said, pushing her back and displaying her to the group. "Isn't she fantastic?"

"Well, I try," she giggled. She held the bag out to the Doctor. "There's three more in there."

"Only three?" John asked.

"Mine," Dean said, reaching across John and grabbing the plate.

"Wh—hey! Hold on a second, just—"

"And I'll take this one."

John glared at the Doctor and Dean as Sally laughed and gave his arm a squeeze. "Don't worry, I came prepared." She held out her compact, opened it up to reveal the mirror below the pressed powder top.

John sighed. "Great. Thanks. This is… perfect."

"Look, John," Sam said. "If you're really worried, we'll have Cas go with you."

"Whoa, hey, no, I didn't agree to that," Dean snapped. "What about our safety?"

Sam glared at Dean and held up the plate. "We've got these. We should be fine. Besides, John is the only one of us scheduled to get decommissioned back to 1891. If it makes him feel safer, I say Cas goes with him." He raised an eyebrow in Castiel's direction. "Cas?"

Castiel gave a single nod. "This is… acceptable."

"And what if those angels show up and zap him off again?" John asked.

"One, they were demons," Dean explained. "And two, if Bela and this Irene-bitch are here, we have a score to settle."

"Guys," Sally said, holding up her wrist. "2:03 AM. Best head out."

"Right," the Doctor sighed. He walked up to the door they'd parked the TARDIS next to on the side of the building, pointed the sonic-screwdriver directly at it and pressed the button. It whirred at a high-pitch frequency, and the door clicked, swung open.

The Doctor smiled. "Shall we?"

* * *

><p>The four men stepped inside the large Cathedral and for a long while, no one spoke. The Doctor closed the door behind them with an almost inaudible click and still, not a word.<p>

All anyone could muster was Dean's quiet, "whoa."

"You should see it in the daytime," John murmured.

"You a religious man, John?" the Doctor asked.

"Not particularly, no," he replied, eyes never leaving the dome that loomed over them. "Well, not in the attending-sense, but…" He smiled. "My grandmother used to take me here once a month for Holy Communion. My parents were never religious, but Gran?" He smiled. "Loved listening to the music in these halls. Something… very peaceful about it."

"Peace isn't exactly how I'd describe it right now," Dean murmured. "So we're looking for a stone angel in a big place made of stone and darkness."

"Don't worry, I brought torches," John said, reaching into his coat pocket. He held one out to the Doctor.

The Doctor just smiled and held up his screwdriver. "This'll do me fine, thanks."

John held it out to Sam and Dean. "Torch?"

"No," Dean said, smirking as he reached for it. "But I'll take that _flashlight_."

"He means thank you," Sam said, snatching the object from Dean's hands. Before Dean could argue, Sam turned to where Castiel was standing. He was only a few steps in from the doorway and staring at the floor. "Cas? You okay?"

"Something is here."

An uneasy silence took up the blank expanse of the cathedral.

"Is it the angel?" John asked.

Castiel frowned, still staring at the floor. "I am unsure." He suddenly tensed. "It is moving."

"Moving?" Sam asked. "Moving where?"

"Below us. Something of great power. It is fast. Faster than anything of this plane—"

"S-so what do we do?" Dean stammered. "How do we stop—?"

A rush of wind and the sound of wings and Castiel was gone.

Dean's jaw went tight. "Son of bitch, I hate it when he does that."

"Does this place have a basement?" Sam asked.

John swallowed. "No… but it has a crypt."

Dean sighed. "Awesome."

* * *

><p>Castiel stood in the darkness of the crypt, not moving, just sensing. Whatever had been moving had stopped. But he could still sense something strong in this place. But there was something more on the edge of that, something that made his teeth itch. Something like—<p>

"Hello, Castiel."

Castiel turned as the demon snapped his fingers. The lights on the walls lit up the ceiling with a red latticed pattern. Crowley smiled. "Got a minute?"

"You should not be here," Castiel snapped.

"Why, because America's favorite poster boys are upstairs coming down?" Crowley asked, raising an eyebrow. "Give me some credit, Cas." He snapped a second time. A wall of stone clicked and twisted, revealing a stairway. Likely a stairway not even the Cathedral staff knew about, given the thick layer of dust and the smell of mildew reeking from out of the lower crypt.

Castiel's eyes narrowed on Crowley and the demon smiled, held up his hand. "Five minutes. I think it's about time you and I had a chat, no?"

* * *

><p>The Doctor sonicked the door to the crypt and the group rushed downstairs. Dean nearly tripped over a neatly stacked pile of chairs. His eyes followed the chairs to the tables, the mood candles unlit, the white linen tablecloths, and—<p>

"Do they have a café down here?" Dean asked.

John stared at him. "Yeah."

"Why… the hell… would _anyone_ want to have lunch in a place filled with _dead people_? You guys are just _weird as fuck_."

John sighed, flashing his torch at the ceiling. "Clearly you've never been to _France_."

"Oi!" the Doctor snapped. "I rather like France."

"Me too!" Dean snapped. "They make great films."

Sam blinked a few times then turned to look at Dean. "Dude, that's not film, that's porn. And they're not in France, that's just a set."

Dean stared at Sam, then look back at John, then back at Sam. "Whatever, look, let's find this angel, okay?"

"Any advice, Doctor?" John asked.

"Just one bit," the Doctor murmured. "Just… don't blink."

* * *

><p>"I think things didn't quite go the way either of us expected the other day," Crowley said, leading Castiel through the long halls of stone and dust.<p>

"Your _associates_ tried to kill Dean Winchester."

"An order I never gave," Crowley shot back. "And I promise I've told the girls to just, as a general rule, to keep themselves as far away from your pets as possible. So…" He held out a hand. "No hard feelings."

Castiel stared at Crowley's hand but did not move to shake it.

Crowley sighed, pulling back his hand. "Now, bygones and all that aside, let's talk business."

"I tire of these constant revisions to our plans," Castiel muttered.

"Well, considering it was your boys who killed the goose who laid the golden egg—and by the way, keeps laying eggs in my basement even though she's brain dead as all-hell—I'm here to save both our skins by presenting you with a little thing I like to call 'Plan B'."

Castiel's looked over the rows of stone tombs and caskets. "There is no need. Aziraphale told me of your… _plan_."

Crowley spun around to face Castiel. "What did you think?"

"Not interested."

"Not int—" Crowley chuckled nervously. "Not interested? Do you have… any idea the sort of offer you're passing up? Imported goods _always_ run a higher rate. And, think of the exchange on age alone."

"But without the complete spear, you will be unable to harness these souls," Castiel argued.

Crowley held up a finger. "As it just so happens… I've got a golden ticket." His hand passed through the air to hold up two tickets. "I'm sending my girls to the owners private gallery party. And it just so happens, one of my girls knows him. Well…" Crowley smirked. "She knows what he likes."

Castiel's expression hadn't changed at all. "You are talking to me rather than taking the prize for yourself. You need me for something."

Crowley pocketed the tickets. "Don't rush a business man if you want his best offer," he chastised Castiel. "Now, my asking price is rather low."

"And that price is?"

"Distraction," Crowley said. "Misinformation."

Castiel frowned. "I don't understand."

"I want you to feed these stupid apes bad info on the spear's whereabouts. Rumor has it they're onto me, and we can't have that. Because if they find out I'm involved, believe me…" He jabbed a finger at Castiel's chest. "They'll find out you're involved. And then this whole thing comes crashing down around both our ears. And believe me, mate… no one wants that." His eyes widened and he clapped his hands. "Oh! One more thing. Small favor to me, one of mine needs access to some of, ah… let's call it Heaven's more classified information. The really dusty books upstairs."

"What for?" Castiel asked.

Crowley smirked. "Call it preventative measures, just to be safe."

Castiel stepped toward Crowley. "_What… for?"_

Crowley held up both hands in front of him and stepped backwards, away from Castiel. "Look… the Winchesters, right? Won't touch them. But they've got friends. I'm here to look out for me and mine. And me and mine want more information on Gallifrey."

Castiel frowned. "Are you looking to declare war on a Timelord."

Crowley snorted. "Uh, no, do I look _daft_? No. However, I do believe knowledge is power. And I believe my people have a right to be armed."

Castiel made a face. "I shall… make arrangements."

"You're a _gem_," Crowley smirked. "Now…" He stopped dead in his tracks.

Both the angel and the demon stared at the stone statue in the corner of the crypt, hands over its face, turned to face the corner. Crowley frowned and pointed. "That… was not here earlier this evening."

"I believe it is the creature they seek," Castiel said, not taking his eyes off the statue.

Crowley snorted. "That? Your boys came all the way here to hunt down lawn ornamentation? Really?"

"It is a creature of great power. Are you unable to sense it?"

"All I can sense is a fat lot of stone and…"

At that very moment, Castiel looked down at Crowley, and Crowley at Castiel. In that moment, no one was looking at the statue. And in that moment…

They blinked.

Not so much as a sound, just the coolness of a shadow suddenly gone, and the empty corner of a crypt. Crowley turned to see where Castiel was now staring at the empty space where a stone angel had just been.

Crowley's eyebrows went up. "Well… that's not creepy at all, is it?"

Castiel shook his head, looking about the Crypt. "We should not have taken our eyes off of it."

"Correction," Crowley said, smirking. "You should not have taken your eyes off of it. And I…" He chuckled. "Well, I suppose we'll chat later."

Before Castiel could turn to face the demon, he had vanished into thin air.

Castiel sighed. "This is most disconcerting."

* * *

><p>"Guys!" Sam shouted. "I found something over here!" He flashed the light down the corridor, bent to one knee to examine the heavy layer of dust.<p>

The Doctor walked over to where Sam knelt, poked his head down the stairs. "Ooh! A secret corridor. Love me a secret corridor…"

Dean and John walked up at the same moment. "Any sign of Cas?" Dean asked.

"I am here."

Both Dean and John swore, turning to where the angel was standing—far too close for normal comfort—directly behind them.

"Cas, you gotta stop doing that," Dean snapped.

"The angel?" John said, cutting off anything else Dean might have said. "Did you see the angel?"

"Yes," Castiel said. "But it…" He looked to the ground. "I… may have blinked."

John rubbed a hand over his mouth as the Doctor stepped forward, putting a hand on Castiel's shoulder. "It's alright. We'll find it." He nodded. "Castiel, you go with John. I'll go with the boys." The Doctor didn't say so much as another word, just nodded to the other side of the crypt. Both brother nodded and started away with him.

Castiel looked to John who sighed. "Just.. try not to let me get eaten, alright?" John murmured.

Castiel's eyes narrowed. "I did not think these creatures were prone to consuming human flesh—"

"No, just…" John grabbed him by the front of his jacket and tugged him along. "Come on. Let's get this over with."

The Doctor and the Winchesters walked each corridor, checking every shadow. But there was nothing to be seen. Dean leapt backwards as something skittered across the floor in front of them; nothing more than a common house spider.

Sam snorted. "Careful there, Rambo."

"Hey," Dean snapped, rounding on him. "Shut your mouth or I'll have to ask the Doc what he knows about Weeping _Clowns_."

Sam's expression went from smiling to nauseated in less than a second flat. He looked at the Doctor who was shaking his head. "No such thing. At least I'm rather certain there's no such thing. How do you feel about the, ah…" He gestured in front of his face. "Red noses?"

Sam went tense. "_Why_?"

"Nothing, just… making a mental note to avoid that planet." The Doctor beamed at him. "Right, moving along."

"Anything?" John asked the angel.

"I can sense a great deal of power, but I see nothing thus far."

John looked down at his watch. 2:30 AM. He had a minute left, if that. "Well it has to be here somewhere, just…" His words trailed off. He shined the torch at the tall marble statue before him. "Castiel?"

"Yes, John?"

"Nothing just… come here, I th… I think I found it." He didn't take his eyes off the statue as he fumbled for the compact Sally had given him. He held up the mirrored glass in front of him, not daring to blink as Castiel rounded the stone corner.

Castiel looked at the statue, then at John. "Are you alright?"

John gave a single, near hysterical, laugh. "Yeah… yeah, actually, I'm just, uh… a little surprised, actually. Here." He gestured for Castiel to take his place. "Just, don't take your eyes off it, don't blink. And…" He put the compact in Castiel's hand, looking to make certain it held so the angel was looking at itself. "Don't move that, just…" John took a deep breath and looked down at his watch. Another laugh. "Ha! Look at that! Well, don't actually look, look at the angel, but…" John smiled. "2:31 AM. We caught the creature, and I didn't even have to get caught." John shook his head. "Alright, just… stay here, yes? I'm gonna go get the Doctor, and Sam and Dean, and we'll…"

There was a loud clatter.

Castiel didn't move, didn't take his eyes off the statue. "John?"

No response.

Castiel kept the compact pointed at the angel, and looked over his shoulder. John was nowhere to be seen. His torch was lying on the ground, still rolling in lazy circles since it had been dropped.

* * *

><p>Dean led the group over to the other side of the crypt. The red lighting on the ceiling of the crypt flickered and went down. "That's inconvenient," Dean muttered.<p>

"Worry about it later," Sam said. "Let's keep going."

They searched for a few minutes before finding Castiel at the end of the long corridor. "Well, it's empty as hell over there, what about…" He frowned. He shone his flashlight at Castiel and nearly jumped out of his skin as he saw the marble creature, all clawed hands and mouth filled with sharp teeth. "_Jesus!_ What is that thing?"

"That… would be what we came here to find," the Doctor said. "But it was dark, here… why hasn't it gone anywhere?"

"I have not taken my eyes off of it," Castiel said.

Dean's eyes narrowed, then widened in surprise. "Hold up, you can see in the dark?"

"Naturally."

"Sorry, hold on," Sam said, cutting into the conversation. "If that's the angel… then where's John?"

"He's gone."

"What?"

"Gone," Castiel repeated. When no one said anything, he sighed. "He was taken; there appears to be a… second angel."

Sam's jaw dropped and he looked at the Doctor. "Um, correct me if I'm wrong, but… you said there was only one angel."

"I thought there was, yes…"

Dean had crouched and picked up John's flashlight from the floor. He tried the button. Nothing. He tried it again. Still nothing. He slapped it against the flat of his palm. "What happened to his light?

"It went out," Castiel said. "It went out just before the second angel touched me."

"You were touched by an angel?" the Doctor asked. "Then how are you—"

"I have no lifespanse, therefore no potential energy to feed them," Castiel said. "I suppose… it is a good thing."

Sam's flashlight began to flicker. He shook it. "The hell?"

Even the Doctor's screwdriver began shorting out. "Oh, very not good."

"Cas?" Dean asked.

"The angel is coming back," Castiel said. "I cannot stop it. And I cannot take my eyes off this one or it, too will escape."

"Doc?" Sam murmured. "Any ideas?"

"Just that we could really use some more light," the Doctor mumbled. "Always inconvenient, getting snatched up by these things."

Dean stared at him. "Inconvenient? Getting zapped back to Victorian Frontierland and living myself to death, I don't think so! Let's get upstairs."

"Uh, Dean," Sam stammered, staring.

"What?"

Dean followed Sam's gaze to the far end of the crypt. A stone angel stood near the entrance they'd come down from. It was pointing at them.

Dean swallowed. "Wow, okay. Fucking creepy. Why is it pointing at—?"

Before he could ask the question, the flashlight shorted out. The angel hadn't moved, but it's face had gone from soft and feminine to something entirely different. Both Sam and Dean let out screams in tandem as the Doctor aimed his screwdriver at it, shooting a bright light.

"Why didn't we bring the guns?" Dean roared.

"It's stone, guns won't work on it!" the Doctor snapped.

"Well next time we bring semtex! Sammy?"

Sam was still trying to get the flashlight to work. It kept lighting and fading in varying bursts. All the while, the light from the Doctor's screwdriver grew dimmer and dimmer. Finally the light held steady.

"HA!" Sam said, pointing the light at the angel.

Then bulb of the flashlight went out with a pop, startling everyone. The angel was barely an inch closer.

"Doctor?" Sam whimpered. "What do we do?"

The Doctor swallowed. "Ah, well… in this case I, ah… I'm not entirely sure. Just…" He kept pressing the buttons on his screwdriver. "Well… we'll have to figure something out when we get to 1891 London, I suppose."

The light was dim, almost black. The sound of the screwdriver became more and more faint, until…

Dean's lighter flicked on. The angel's face was directly in front of his own, the lighter barely occupying the space between them.

Sam took in huge gulps of air as the Doctor groaned in relief and tested his screwdriver. "Oh, it's like Christmas. It's back in working order, thank _everything_."

Sam was at Dean's side, gently working the lighter out of his brother's hand. "Dean, it's okay, just give me the lighter."

"I think I peed a little," Dean mumbled, ash-white and shaking.

Sam glanced down. "I think you did too. How about you go upstairs and get some air?"

Dean nodded frantically and went to do just that.

Castiel didn't move to ask Sam, "did we win?"

Sam nodded. "Yeah, Cas… I think we did."

* * *

><p>It took more time than any of them wanted to admit, but eventutally the plan was devised that it would be Castiel who would take the angels to the Justicarn. It would take three total trips: one by the Doctor to explain that they would be bringing the angels in, then two by Castiel who would take the statues to the drop off point on the roof of Baker Street where the officials would escort them to a mirrored cell. They promised it would hold them, but none of the group seemed to take comfort in that promise.<p>

After making certain the doors of the Justicarn were securely shut, there was only one thing left to do.

Pick up the rest of the group from 1891.

Sally nearly knocked Larry clean over with kisses and soft curses of what would happen if anything ever happened to him again. Larry to it all in stride, and when he glanced up, both Mary and John Watson (both of them) were smiling at him.

Dean broke the moment when he snapped John's suspenders. "The hell are those supposed to be?"

Watson held out his hand. "You must be Dean."

Dean gave the man a once-over and took his hand, shaking it firmly. "You must be Captain Moustache."

"Captain _Watson_, actually," Watson corrected. "John Watson."

Dean stared at him. His mouth moved, but no words came out. Finally he pointed at the man whose hand he was shaking and looked at John. "John Watson. Like… _you_ John Watson, or…"

"Oh, it gets better," John said, pointing at the two men talking animatedly a few steps back. "There's two Sherlock."

"Well, Mr. Holmes," Sherlock said, holding out his hand. "It has been, to say the least, amusing."

"And to say the _most_," Holmes added, shaking the offered hand. "An utter pleasure. Though, you must tell me more of this… blogging next time you visit. Watson keeps a record, but you say this one is located in a single library able to be accessed in an single person's home?"

"Oh God," Sam muttered, having gone white. He looked at the Doctor. "Is this the real life?"

"I thought it was," the Doctor mumbled.

Watson sighed turning to John. "Well, dear chap, I suggest—though I suppose we'll have little to say in the matter—"

"Do we ever?" John mumbled.

Waston nodded. "Never. But… if the opportunity arises and we meet again, I suggest we… plan accordingly."

John shrugged. "Well, things weren't that bad, were they?"

"Not at all," Watson agreed. "Well, no worse than usual."

"Okay, boys," the Doctor finally said, raising his voice just enough to be heard over the din. "Time to be off. We've work to do, so—"

Holmes shouldered past the Doctor and stepped inside the blue box. "And this is the time machine you told me of!"

"Holmes!" Watson snapped, at the same moment John shouted, "Sherlock! Don't let him in there!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Please, what harm could he possibly—"

The TARDIS rocked with a small explosion.

Everyone clamored inside save Mary who declared to Watson that she was not going to be part of yet another "Holmes-Incident."

Inside, Holmes was covered in some sort of a vibrant translucent blue powder, holding a long glass tube that had been connected to the wall. He shook the object at the Doctor. "I don't suppose you know where this goes?"

The Doctor pointed directly at the door to the TARDIS. "_OUT."_

Holmes mouth, shaped to a perfect, 'o' closed shut. "Right. On our way then. Come, Watson. Don't touch anything."

Watson rolled his eyes. "Coming." He pressed both hands together, nodded at John. "Again, thank you, Doctor Watson, it's been an absolute pleasure."

"Likewise," John said. "Perhaps next time, we'll get that cup of tea in peace."

Watson chuckled. "Unlikely." Watson tipped his hat in Larry's direction. "Farewall, Mr. Nightingale. And Miss Sparrow?"

Sally's eyes widened as the man gave her a small bow, smiled at her and said, "treat him kindly, won't you?"

Sally nodded. "O-of course. Thank you, Sir."

Watson walked to the door, waved at them. "Until next time."

Holmes reached for the doorknob, muttering, "if you don't mind, if I could just—"

Watson smacked his hand with the top of his cane, offered a final apologetic smile at the group and closed the door behind him.

Sally blinked, looking around at the rest of the group, three of them in Victorian attire. "What just happened?"

"Man, I don't even want to think about it," Dean muttered.

Sam nodded. "Seconded."

"Agreed."

"Yeah."

"Never again."

"Won't even mention it."

No one spoke until the Doctor murmured, "All in favor of going home?"

All hands went up.

The Doctor smiled. "Thought so. Allons-y."

* * *

><p>"What do you know?"<p>

"Everything."

Crowley smirked. "Tell me."

Horace slid a file across the table. "Here's the key points. I've highlighted the most important features of the compiled profile."

Crowley picked up the folder, thumbed through the pages. He examined the file for a long while in silence. Suddenly, his eyes flicked up. "This is… accurate? All of it?"

"Checked and double-checked. Pulled a few favors in, but…" Horace shrugged. "It's all true."

Crowley chuckled. "You'd think with a leger this red, the Winchester boys should be hunting him. Not working with him."

"Better for us," Horace said.

Crowley smiled. "Much. You think he's our best shot?"

"He's certainly the most valuable of the merchandise currently in stock, yes."

Crowley closed the file, slid it back across the table to Horace. "And the spear pieces?"

"We're just waiting on the final piece." Horace tapped the folder. "So how do we handle this?"

Crowley smiled. "Oh, I've an idea. I'm going to need to call Cas, let him know we won't be needing that misinformation play after all."

"Is that wise?" Horace asked.

Crowley shrugged. "Is any of this? But if we're going to do this, I suggest we not do it in the middle of a London crowd, savvy?"

Horace stood, picking up the folder and tucking it under his arm. "I'll put out the word on the street."

Crowley shook his head. "No. I don't want too many hands involved in this. No, if we do this, I need only a handful." He reached into the air, and produced a vial of milk-colored liquid. "And this." He tossed it to Horace, who caught the vial without ever taking his eyes off his superior.

His gaze flicked down to the vial, then back to Crowley's. "When should I distribute it?"

"Patience," Crowley said, starting for the door. "After all, it's not like there's a manual on how to catch a Time Lord."

_**TO BE CONTINUED…**_


	6. Chapter 6

"How long do we have?"

"Thirty minutes."

"Do you think they suspect?"

Bela looked over her shoulder, back at the town that was rapidly growing smaller. Her throat worked a moment, eyes never leaving the darkness behind them, the little cluster of lights in the middle of the Welsh countryside. "I hope so. _God_, I hope so."

"Bela?" Irene's hand slipped from the steering wheel and into the other woman's. Her hand was cold, her fingers having trouble finding their place between Bela's. She swallowed. "Do you ever wonder…" Her voice cut out, and she tried a second time. Her voice was artificially steady, her eyes never once leaving the road ahead. "Do you ever think that… perhaps we are doing the… _wrong_ thing?" Her lips twisted into a grimace of a smile. "Even by our… remarkably low standards?"

Bela looked at the woman sitting across from her, driving the car into the dark ahead. The light from outside the car reflected deep shadows on Irene's face, carving lines of troubled thoughts deep into her expression. Her blood red lips were parted. Trembling. Bela couldn't bear to look at her a moment more. She gripped Irene's hand, swallowing hard and forcing her voice to the level. "I'm doing the only thing I _can_ do."

"We don't have to," Irene murmured. Her hands were white-knuckled on the steering wheel. "We could leave. _Right now_. Go back, fix it all… Leave _all_ _this_ behind."

Bela shook her head. "Not _this_. Not ever. It… won't let me be, Irene."

"What will happen?"

"I don't know."

Irene blinked, fast and frantic to keep the tears from building in her eyes. She stared at the ceiling of the car and gnawed on her lower lip. "_God_." She sniffled, shaking her head and struggling to keep her eyes on the road. "Call it," she finally said. "Call it before I change my mind and turn round."

Bela nodded. She pulled her phone out of her clutch, dialed the number. She pressed it hard against her face to keep it from falling out of her shaking hands. "We're clear," she said, wiping under her eyes. "Begin distribution at your discretion."

A button was pressed and the call ended. Minutes passed in silence save the soft hum of the road passing beneath them.

Irene kept glancing into the rear-view mirror, unable to take her eyes off of what was now a single golden spot in the distance behind them. "What will happen to them?" she asked.

Bela shook her head, staring out the passenger window and gnawing on her thumbnail. "We can't worry about that anymore."

The car sped off into the night. Meanwhile the small town Wrexhaven slept; deep, restful, and final.

* * *

><p><em>Three days earlier…<em>

The champagne bottle opened with a pop, and without sending a cork flying across the room. Dean took the moment to remind everyone that he had not, in fact, managed to screw this one thing up. Everyone laughed, glasses were poured, and it was John who proposed a toast.

"To us, gentlemen," he said, raising his glass high. "From turning over the most wanted Slitheen crime lord two hours ago—"

"To Dean peeing himself because of a Weeping Angel a week ago," Sam said, managing to keep a straight face despite the look Dean was giving him and the laughter of those around him.

John smiled and amended with, "and to the first day we all met up on the roof of this fine building. A job well-done and a job _nearly_ finished." He held out his glass. "Gentlemen, it's been an honor."

"Hear hear," the Doctor said, clinking his glass against the others.

"To good times," Dean said.

"To more to come," Sam added.

Everyone moved as though to drink, when it was realized Sherlock hadn't spoken yet. All gazes rested on the man, sitting at the small dining table with his legs drawn up to his chest. His eyes narrowed. "What?"

John sighed. "Sherlock, just say something nice."

Sherlock glared at the group. "Why should I have to say something nice? You are all perfectly aware of my opinions of you, good and ill."

"Sherlock—"

"Fine," he snapped. "You all have proven yourselves to be considerably less irritating than when we first met." He dinged his glass against Dean's then, looking directly at John the entire time, downed the glass in one go.

"We like you, too, Sherlock," Sam said, smirking.

"Oh, don't patronize me," Sherlock sighed. "I just don't understand the significance of sitting around affirming our importance to each other."

"Fair enough," Sam chuckled.

The Doctor, who had just taken a sip of the pale-colored liquid, stared at the flute in his hand. "This is rather good."

"Should we really be letting a Time Lord drink?" Sam asked.

Dean's brow furrowed in thought and he looked at the Doctor. "Can you get drunk?"

The Doctor's eyebrows went up. "Drunk?"

"Yeah."

"What's that?"

Dean gave Sam a sidelong glance. "We need to have him over for whiskey weekends at Bobby's."

"We should probably never do anything like that," Sam said without emotion. "Like, ever. At all."

"No, we should!" Dean laughed. "Hell, let's make a night of it. Doc can fly us all out to our neck of the woods and we'll have a round. On me."

"Dull—"

"We'd love to come," John said over Sherlock, offering Dean a warm smile.

"Well, let's not get ahead of ourselves," Sam said. "We've still got—"

"Sammy, come on, enjoy the moment," Dean said, clapping a hand on his brother's shoulder. "We just closed up a huge case. Let's just celebrate. Put our feet up for the night." He thought a moment then added, "and late into tomorrow afternoon."

The din of conversation and laughter continued. No one noticed the new-comer in the room until Sherlock suddenly put both feet on the floor. "Mrs. Hudson."

The woman smiled warmly at them as they all turned and welcomed her to the apartment. Dean offered her a glass of champagne, to which she responded that she didn't drink the bubbly after nine in the evening ("Upsets my stomach, dear. You understand.").

"You're more than welcome to join in the conversation, Mrs. Hudson," John said. "God knows you've been a lifesaver these last few weeks."

Dean raised his glass in her direction. "And you _so_ make the best pie ever."

She slapped his shoulder and giggled. "Oh stop. Young thing like you, you'll make an old lady blush. It's not decent."

Dean smirked. "Only if it's not true."

Mrs. Hudson giggled again, stopping and composing herself before pointing toward the front door. "I didn't mean to interrupt your lovely party, boys, but you've a visitor."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Tell them to go away. Consulting hours are from nine in the morning until—"

"I'm not here for a consultation."

A man stepped into view, dressed in a black and charcoal pinstriped suit, and carrying a matching umbrella.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "Why are you here, Mycroft?"

"Wait, Mycroft?" Dean asked. "As in _your brother_, Mycroft?"

At the same time Sherlock snapped out a harsh, "no," Mycroft smiled at the table and said, "the very same."

"What do you want?" Sherlock asked, pulling his legs back onto his chair and glaring at his brother over the tops of his knees.

"For God's sakes, you act as though I'm going to ask to pull a tooth from your mouth."

"Wouldn't be the first time."

"You were _ten_ and it was falling out as it were—"

"Alright, boys, that's enough," John said, stepping between them. "Mycroft, what can we help you with?"

"Actually, Doctor Watson," Mycroft said. "I'm not here for you. Nor for my brother." He barely pivoted to face the Time Lord who, up until that point, had been very quiet. "Hello again, Doctor."

* * *

><p>Sherlock was still in the kitchen, glaring out at the living room over his knees.<p>

The Doctor sighed, giving him a sad look. "Sherlock, you can't stay in there forever."

"Yes, he can," John and Mycroft said in unison.

The Doctor sighed, looking back at Mycroft with a weary smile. "I thought, perhaps, your people had lost me."

Mycroft smiled. "Don't be ridiculous. I was informed of your presence within ten minutes of your arrival." He looked in the direction of the kitchen and added, "imagine my surprise when I learned it was my younger brother caught up in another one of your messes."

John looked between the Doctor and Mycroft. "I'm sorry, _another_?"

Mycroft never took his eyes off the Doctor, nor did his sickly-sweet smile falter. "The 10 Downing Street incident. The Saxon election. The ATMOS conspiracy."

The Doctor's hand shot up. "I'd like to point out, if I may, that none of those were _my_ fault."

Mycroft chuckled. "One _might_ make an argument over the Saxon-affair."

The Doctor shrugged. "True, but the argument wouldn't take—"

"Look, I love discussing politics as much as the next guy," Dean muttered from his position, leaning against the fireplace mantle. "But does Messer Fussy-britches want to cut to the chase?"

Mycroft's eyes narrowed. "I've a request to deliver."

"Yeah, we got bubbly to drink, so if you don't mind just…" Dean gestured with his hands.

Mycroft reached down to the small black case he'd set on the table when he entered. He unzipped it and pulled from it a folder. He opened it. "Dean Winchester," he read aloud. When Dean went stiff, he added, "that _is_ your name, correct?" He continued flipping through the pages. "Elder brother to one Sam Winchester. Currently presumed deceased by the American Federal Bureau of Investigation—"

The Doctor held out an arm to keep Dean from walking directly up to Mycroft and continuing the discussion with his fists. Dean settled back against the mantle with a shrug. "Okay, cool party trick, so what?"

"So perhaps you should consider showing some respect," Mycroft said.

Dean smirked. "I _always_ show respect to my _elders_."

From the kitchen, Sherlock snorted.

Mycroft's expression soured and he shut the folder, looked back at the Doctor. "I come with news that might interest your little group."

"The Unusual Suspects," Sam corrected. At the looks from the others, he shrunk. "Well, I thought it was catching on…"

"Perhaps you haven't been told, Mister Holmes," the Doctor said, "but we're already handling the case."

"Well, I bring news of the one who got away," Mycroft said, pulling out a new folder and sliding it across the coffee table to the Doctor. He continued as the Doctor picked it up, examining the contents, Dean looking on over his shoulder. "While you've excelled in rounding up the, ah… various miscreants, several have gone missing. And I have it on good authority these three individuals are part of what is, no doubt, a nefarious scheme."

"Bela," Dean murmured as the Doctor held up the photograph.

"Correct," Mycroft said. "Miss Talbot in addition to one previously presumed dead, Irene Adler—"

A short laugh from the kitchen.

"And who is the gentleman?" the Doctor asked, poking at the man in the picture. He'd lowered his sunglasses and was winking at the security camera. Not exactly subtle.

Mycroft crossed his legs and leaned back in the chair. "He's a slippery one, that one." He glanced at the kitchen. "Goes by the name of James, or rather _Jim_, Moriarty."

There was a clamor of footsteps from the kitchen. Without so much as a word, Sherlock walked directly up to the Doctor and snatched the photo out from his hands. The Doctor grabbed at him. "Oi!"

Sherlock examined the photo, eyes narrowing a moment before flinging it back in the direction of his brother. "Alright, so it hasn't been edited, but why would Moriarty be involved in this?"

"If I knew the answer, do you think I would have come?" Mycroft asked.

"I don't know, would you have?"

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "All we know is that not only are they working together… they are working _for_ someone."

Sherlock gave his brother a thin smile. "Now _that_ I don't believe."

"That's he'd allow himself to be under someone else's authority?" Mycroft murmured. "Of course not. However we both know that's not necessarily how this event it playing out. Regardless… we have information on their next target."

Sam looked at John, both of them sitting behind Mycroft, and mouthed, 'the Spear?' John shrugged, mouthed back a, 'maybe.'

Sherlock had given them a brief glance before returning his attention to his brother. "And what information might that be?"

"A location." He indicated for the Doctor to give him the folder. He pulled out a small map and a few photos, spread them out on the table. John and Sam gathered round to look at the various pieces of information. "A small village on the southern-most coast. Unremarkable in every way save one." He tapped a photo of an old man standing in front of what was too large to call a manor and too small to refer to as a castle.

"A gentlemen friend of mine has something of a collection. Antiquities, rarities, the like."

"So what's Hugh Heffner got to do with this?" Dean asked wryly.

Mycroft sighed. "Mister Brynn Glendower is a friend—"

"I'm going to go out on a limb and guess Diogenes?" John said, raising an eyebrow in Mycroft's direction.

Mycroft merely smiled and continued. "His collection is quite expensive and quite vast. He is not aware that these three have been casing out his home, and with luck, he will never need to be aware."

"And why's that?" Dean asked.

"Because you're going to stop them," Mycroft said. "Or at least, I hope you will. After all, Mister Winchester, we wouldn't want you to end up at the bottom of a pier again."

Dean stepped toward Mycroft but Sherlock stuck out an arm, stopping him. "And why should we?"

"A bit obvious, isn't it?" Mycroft murmured, eyes narrowing. "How it's all related…?"

"Of course."

"Then we shouldn't need to discuss it any further," Mycroft murmured. "Now—"

"I haven't said I'd take the case," Sherlock snapped.

"And once again," Mycroft replied in a similar tone, "I'm not asking _you_." He raised an eyebrow at the Doctor.

The Doctor reached across the table, gathered the contents of the folder all the while murmuring, "alright, that's quite enough, boys." He flipped to the back, holding up five cards, elegantly lined in black and sealed with navy-colored wax. "Ooh! That's rather nice. What are these?"

"Invitations," Mycroft said. "There are also a list of aliases at the back. Negotiable, save, of course, Sherlock and John." He smiled at his younger brother. "I've already informed Brynn that, as I am unable to attend, you will be attending in my stead."

Sherlock sighed. "Dull."

The Doctor glanced up, muttered, "he means thank you."

"So what do you want us to do, exactly?" Sam asked. "We get there, we go to the fancy party, then what?"

"Apprehend the thieves, _naturally_," Mycroft said, standing. "The _how_, in this case, is entirely up to you." He grabbed his umbrella, stopping suddenly and looking at the Doctor. "Oh, ah… one condition, if I may."

The Doctor nodded. "Yeah, yeah, sure."

Mycroft sighed. "I do apologize, but… it would seem your enemies are aware of your mode of transportation. I suggest taking an alternate."

John gestured. "We've the jeep."

Sherlock was already shaking his head "There's the risk of it being recognized."

"Which is why I've gone to the liberty of setting you up with a rental," Mycroft said, holding up a pair of keys. His gaze drifted to Dean. "I was informed it was a choice the Winchester's might be partial to."

Dean's eyes went wide. "Dude… DUDE. _DUDE, SERIOUSLY?"_

Mycroft tossed him the keys. "See for yourself."

* * *

><p>Dean was the first one out of the flat and on the street. He approached the car with hands open, gently ran them over the black frame of the '67 Impala. He paused only a moment to look back at Sam and the others "<em>DUDE<em>."

Sam chuckled. "Dude."

"Oh, it's like having a little piece of my baby here with me," Dean said, lying down on the hood.

John cleared his throat. "Um, will you be wanting us to leave you and the car alone for a bit?"

"Johnny boy, you might have to," Dean said, sprawled out on the front of the car, both feet tip-toed on the ground as he hugged the hood.

"Let me know if you'll be needing anything else for the trip," Mycroft said to Sherlock.

"We don't require any more than your usual assistance, Mycroft," Sherlock said.

Mycroft merely smiled, tucking the crook of his umbrella around his arm and signaled for the car. He entered when it pulled up alongside the curb, and shut the door behind him. The din of the American's excitement faded into the distance.

"Did they buy it?"

Mycroft's eyes went to a solid black, and turned to the sound of the voice. "Every word."

Crowley chuckled. "And they said political moles were a waste of time. Would anyone else be able to play the role of Mycroft Holmes so brilliantly?"

"No, Sir."

Crowley gestured at the driver, then turned back to the demon. "Now, when we get back, what are you going to do?"

"Put it directly back where I found it."

"Which was?"

"In bed—"

"In bed, and he won't recall any of this," Crowley said.

"And if he does?"

"Convince him it was a bad dream." He smirked. "After all, aliens are one thing, but demons?" He leaned forward and pat the man's cheek. "You've done well, Anthea. Keep up the good work."

The thing inside Mycroft Holmes smiled. "Always, sir."

* * *

><p>"We all packed up?" John asked, looking over the trunk.<p>

Dean tossed in one final duffle bag. He nudged John, unzipped the bag enough to show him the blades and guns he'd stowed away inside. "Best be safe," he murmured.

John swallowed. "Yeah. Best be."

"Don't tell the Doc."

"Of course not, do you think I'm—"

Sam whistled and gestured at the two of them from the doorway of 221 Baker Street. Dean took the cue and closed the trunk, giving John a look before walking toward the group forming on the sidewalk.

"—so what does it do?" the Doctor was asking Sherlock, holding the small device a few inched away from his eyes and squinting.

"It tracks our location via satellite and gives us directions."

"A GPS?" Dean snorted, and in his best Mel Brooks-style voice, shouted, "we don't need no stinking GPS!"

No one else seemed to get the joke, so Sherlock continued as if he'd never been interrupted. "Considering that against my better judgment, I am, in fact, allowing you to drive, yes. We do need a GPS. The last thing I want is to be stranded in the middle of nowhere due to your own stupid arrogance."

"What you don't trust yourself to read a map right to me?" Dean asked.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Please. My navigational skills are not in question. Your _listening_ skills, however—"

"Alright," the Doctor said, stepping between the two. "I think it's about time we get out on the road, don't you?"

Dean made grabby hands at Sherlock, squirming like a small boy in need of a bathroom break. Sherlock sighed, reaching into his pocket and producing the keys. Dean grabbed the keys, jumped a good two feet in the air and flew to the car. He ran both hands over the black frame. "Aw man, if cheating on Baby with you is wrong, I don't want to be right, Sugar."

"Are you going to _mount_ the car, or _drive_ it?" Sam called out to Dean.

"I'm getting to it!" Dean bellowed over his shoulder. "Just gimme a sec!" He rolled back his shoulders, staring at the door for a long while. Taking a deep breath, he reached for the handle. He opened the door, and as slowly as he could manage, slid into the driver's seat. Eyes closed and smiling, he nodded. "O-oh man, that's nice." He opened his eyes, running a hand up the center of the console, pushing the key into the slot and, very gently, turning the engine on. The car _vrrmm_ed to life and Dean gave a little shudder. "_Hell yeah, that's_ the stuff."

"Anyone else feel like there should be slow, sleezy jazz playing in the background?" John asked as Dean revved the engine a few more times.

"You should see him back home with our car," Sam said with a wince.

"Pass."

"Seconded."

"No, thank you."

Dean closed the door to the driver's side and gave two long honks. He rolled down the window, grinning like a kid who'd just woken up on Christmas morning. "Come on, guys! Let's get going!"

Sam chuckled, looking over at the other three. "You guys ready for this?"

Sherlock sighed. "Are we ever?"

* * *

><p>After some squabbling, it was decided that Sherlock would ride shotgun ("Navigational assistance. God knows he'll need it."), and the other three would pile into the back; the Doctor and Sam would get window seats, and John, as the shortest ("Oi!") would ride in the middle.<p>

The first hour went smoothly enough, save the early confusion Dean had when Sherlock began screaming he was driving on the wrong side of the road. But beyond that, things were better than could be expected. And it wasn't surprising. All of them were excited to be back on a case, and hell. Dean was just excited to have Baby with him and in whatever form he could get her.

In the backseat, John was on his laptop, reading blog entries to a captive audience of two (and a third party who feigned disinterest). Every now and again, however, Dean would glance at Sherlock, ask if the story John was telling was actually true. Sherlock would just smile and keep staring at the long road ahead.

Second hour into the drive, everyone was telling stories. Sam and Dean co-recollected some of their older stories, the simpler hunts where the targets were still ghosts, vampires, and wendigos. John and Sherlock recounted a few of their own adventures, and in due time, they managed to squeeze a few tales out of the Doctor.

And what amazing tales they were. The things he'd seen and the people he'd travelled with. When the Doctor was telling a story, hardly a one of them spoke. Hardly a one of them _breathed_. Tales of stars and planets unseen, distant futures and forgotten pasts, the great and awful mistakes of the universe, and the brilliant amazing people that inhabited it.

The Doctor spent the better part of an hour telling stories of his last companion, a woman named Donna Noble. Dean proclaimed very loudly at the end of one such story that he thought he would rather like Donna. John and Sam agreed. Even Sherlock, quiet in the passenger seat, smiled back at the Doctor in the rearview mirror. The Doctor said he suspected they would have liked Donna.

Sam asked if they'd ever have a chance to meet her. The Doctor's smile went numb. His eyes went distant as the stars he spoke of and for a long while, he stared out the window in silence. Then, very quietly, he said that he did not think that would be possible. Then came the silence of a conversation turned wrong. It stretched on for several minutes, no one daring to voice any of the hundreds of questions left unanswered.

Eventually, the silence became too much.

"Okay, this is getting weird," Dean muttered. "Sammy, turn on my music."

Sam apologized to John and leaned forward between Sherlock and Dean, fiddling with the console. "Y'know," he muttered as he plugged a wire into the console, "if I recall, you didn't like the MP3 jack when I put it into the Impala."

"Yeah, well you had a stupid little plastic thing that hung off her like a moose antler."

"It was convenient."

"It was stupid." He nodded at Sherlock. "Okay, so get this, Sammy back there _dies_, right? Like, _gone_, and I don't touch a thing of his the whole year he's AWOL, right?" Dean said to no one in particular. "But I die—"

"—he didn't die," Sam muttered, "he just went to hell—"

"—and Sam goes crazy on my wheels! Guts the heart and soul out of my baby and fills her up with douchey-gadgets and shit."

Sam sighed, glancing at Sherlock who was frowning at both of them. "I installed an iPod jack and put all of his music on it."

Dean shook his head. "No. Nope. Fall Out Boy is _not_ mine, that shit is yours—"

"He listens to it too."

"The hell I do."

"He does. He loves their new album."

"Shut up, Sam, and crank my tunes."

Sam sighed, hooking up the iPod. "Look, I'm just going to put it on shuffle, okay?" He leaned back, iPod still in hand. "You don't like the song, just tell me to skip it." He looked at the other two and the back of Sherlock's head. "That goes for all of you."

"Unless it's an _awesome_ song," Dean said.

The first song that played was Air Supply's "All Out Of Love." To no one's surprise, John was humming along with the chorus. Sherlock gave him a look. "What? I like this song." By the second chorus, everyone was singing along save Sherlock ("I don't have room on my harddrive for drivel like "song lyrics," and "tunes.")

A Backstreet Boys song started to play, and the car groaned. Dean pointed a finger at the man sitting behind Sherlock. "_Sam's! That's Sam's."_

"Don't judge," Sam chuckled. "It was to pick up chicks."

John raised an eyebrow. "Seriously? Did that actually work?"

Sam smirked. "It's like girl catnip."

"_Change the damn song!"_ Dean roared.

Foreigner came on and Dean fist-pumped in the air. "_Hot blooded, hot blooodeed!"_

"Yeah, change it please," Sherlock said.

"What?" Dean gasped. "How can you not like Foreigner?"

"I'm not so much offended by the music as I am your _singing_," Sherlock said. "Sam. If you would."

_Ramblin' Man_ came on, and Dean sighed. "Love it, but not in the mood. Need something harder than Allman Bro's." He made a face at the next song. "And _Dust In The Wind_. Waaay too slow."

"Oi! I love this song!" the Doctor argued.

"Chaaaaaaange," Dean groaned, throwing his head back.

Sam did as he was told. He smirked as the next song came on. "Dean. Deeean…"

"Hells to the yes," Dean said, drumming on the steering wheel. "Bring it, Ozzy…" He started singing along to _Paranoid, _when he was abruptly cut off.

"Bored," the Doctor said, grabbing the iPod, skipping to the next song.

Dean nearly swerved off the road turning to look at the Doctor, bellowing, "_WHAT THE HELL?_"

"DEAN!"

"STAY IN YOUR BLOODY LANE, WINCHESTER!"

"OI!"

Dean glared at the road ahead of him. "What did we establish? No changing the music if it's _awesome!"_

The Doctor sighed. "Awesome is… relative." He spent the first minute learning how to use the device with John and Sam's instructions—and Dean's irritation—and the next minute listening to the first three seconds of a song, then sighing, "bored. Bored. Heard it before. Slow. Bored." Dean looked ready to tear the steering wheel off of the dashboard when Sam finally snatched the iPod back.

"Okay, whatever the next song is, no matter what it is, we're listening to it, got it?"

"Whatever," Dean snapped at the same moment as Sherlock, rubbing his face with both hands, muttered, "thank you, Samuel."

The song's opening chords started playing and the car went into that awkward silence that follows a roadside argument. There was a break, and the chords started playing again; heavier with a drum beat backing it. John was the first to respond.

"Oh my God. Oh my _God! Yes!_ I love this song!"

"You an AC/DC man, Johnny-boy?" Dean beamed, looking at the tiny blonde bouncing in the middle of the backseat.

"Hell yes, I am!" he laughed.

"What is an AC/DC?" Sherlock asked.

Dean gaped at him, but John was quicker. "Don't mind him, he doesn't even know the earth goes 'round the sun."

"Seriously?" Sam asked, laughing.

Sherlock's jaw was tight. "It isn't important information. All I need to remember is—"

Dean turned the car stereo up to near-full volume, and began singing along at the top of his lungs. "_She was a fast machine, she kept her motor clean…"_

John joined him for the second line, "_She was the best damn woman that I ever seen!"_

By the end of the line, the Doctor and Sam were singing along. "_She had those sightless eyes, telling me no lies, knocking me out with those American thighs!_ _Takin' more than her share, had me fighting for air, she told me to come but I was already there!"_

"What?" John asked, catching Sherlock's eyes in the rearview mirror.

The look didn't surprise him. What did surprise him was the smile. "You," Sherlock answered.

John held his gaze. Eventually, Sherlock looked away. John saw the Doctor smiling at him. He said nothing, just shrugged, and went back to singing. John laughed, joining back in, "_The walls start shaking, the earth was quaking, my mind was aching…"_

Dean rolled down the windows of the car, sticking one arm out into the brisk air of sundown as the entire car sang and shouted along at the tops of their lungs, laughing and smiling. "_We were making it!_

"_YOU. SHOOK ME AAALL. NIIIGHT. LOOONG! (_Dean took a solo: "_Yeah, yoo-hoo-hoo!") YOU. SHOOK ME AAAALL. NIIIGHT. LOONG!"_

The car full of men drove down the road, singing at the top of their voices. The city of Wrexhaven was a small dot of lights on the darkening horizon and for the first time in a long while, everyone was smiling. For a moment, there were no monsters. No things lurking in the dark and no worries hanging over their heads. For a moment, there was only the road. And the music.

* * *

><p>Mycroft had booked them lodgings at a hostel located above a pub called "The Green Pig." Everyone was quite certain they did not need to find out <em>why<em>. It was a small building made of old red bricks, color turned from too many rainy seasons and crawling with ivy. The group decided right away that Sam and Dean would share the double bed, while the singles would go to the others. Sam was just glad he wouldn't be spending another night on a bunkbed.

It was, naturally, Dean who pointed out they had no case to work until the next evening. And with that in mind, he suggested a night in at The Green Pig.

The pub was already overflowing with a rush of early-evening patrons, and more were still arriving. John ordered the group a round, and the Doctor discovered that he wasn't a fan of lager. More patrons arrived, and soon the pub was a mass swarm of energy.

Dean started out playing darts with three, burly fellows who worked at a sawmill five miles out. No hustling, no game-fixing, just an honest game of darts. A few rounds more, and they talked him into a game of shove ha'penny. It didn't take long for Dean to get the gist of the game, and following his second victory in seven games, he announced to Sam that American bar-games sucked.

He'd deny that he said any such thing the next morning.

At some point in the evening, someone began playing a piano and singing. At some point after that, the Doctor led the crowd in a few verses of the familiar Gilbert and Sullivan pattersongs. No one was surprised to see John singing along word-for-word, even as tipsy as he was becoming.

No one noticed that Sherlock had gone.

He'd been sitting in the corner when he first noticed; the slender man standing in the corner of the hall amongst the crowd, eyes moving over the throng but never looking. Not really. He knew what he was looking for. It wasn't until Sherlock noticed him, the man who should have been in a suit, not these poor workman's clothes, that he began to move.

He asked an older gentleman for a smoke, and once he'd had it, he shuffled toward the front doors. But not before looking over his shoulder, back at the consulting detective sitting by himself at the center of the bar. He smiled with too many teeth, winked, and disappeared out the door.

Sherlock felt his blood turn cold, and without so much as a word, was on his feet, shoving through the throng trying in vain to reach the entrance. It took far too long for Sherlock to reach the door, and by the time he'd stumbled to the end of the cobbled road that led to the pub, whomever had been there smiling at him was long gone. Sherlock swore into the cold night air, shaking his head and turning a circle before noticing he was not, in fact alone. However, this was not the person he'd expected to find lying in wait.

Irene smiled, some twenty paces away from him, hiding in the massive shadow of an elm tree, not daring to step into the full glow of the moon. "I suppose suggesting we have dinner is out of the question?"

Sherlock's expression remained neutral. "You would suppose correctly." He glanced around him and Irene chuckled.

"Jim's long gone," Irene said. "He's played his game and now he's gone." She smirked. "It took longer than I expected for you to notice he was there. Your friends have you distracted—"

"Enough," Sherlock said, cutting her off. "If you've something to say—"

"I came here to warn you."

Sherlock gave a soft chuckle, smiled. "_Warn_ me? What for?"

Irene's lips parted, her mouth opened as though to speak. A moment hung in silence and her mouth closed. She gave a shrug, barely noticeable. "I've no idea," she said with a soft laugh, almost bitter.

"And what is the warning?"

"Go home," Irene said. "Go back to your city and your streets and small murders and criminals."

Sherlock took a step toward her. "And if I refuse?"

Irene shook her head. "_Please_. I'm not here to threaten or bargain—"

"Then why are you here?"

Irene's throat worked. "You saved my life once, Mister Holmes." A small smile tugged at the corners of her lips and she shrugged. "I don't like being in anyone's debt. Especially not yours."

Sherlock never once took his eyes off the woman. "And let's say I believe you. What then?"

Irene swallowed hard, gave a small nod. "Then gather your friends… go to your car, and leave. _Please_." Her voice broke on the final word and she closed her eyes, shaking her head.

Sherlock stood, staring at the woman. _The_ woman. No longer vibrant. No longer strong. Still running, but it was more than that. It was the way she stood, wringing the color out of her hands, feet twitching as though longing to run. It was the way she couldn't stare him in the eye for more than a few seconds at a time. It was the way she spoke; short, brief sentences that were more despair than desperation.

She was afraid.

Sherlock closed the distance between them in one suddenly burst of movement. Irene had only enough time to stumble backwards two steps before he'd caught her by her elbow and pulled her up hard to face him. "What is happening? What is he planning?"

Irene shook her head, trying to break free. "He's not planning anything!"

"You're lying!"

Irene's arms came up between his grip and knocked him backwards. "Am I?" she shouted. She tugged at the jeweled band of her watch, pulled it free then shoved her wrist towards him. Her eyes were bright with the challenge. "Go on. Try me."

Sherlock frowned, but took her hand in his, rested his fingers on her wrist. "Tell me what Moriarty's intentions are."

Irene shook her head. "Moriarty isn't leading this operation—"

"He always leads the operation, he has _employers_ but he's never—"

"It's different this time," Irene snapped. "_Everything_ is different." Her mouth snapped shut and she swallowed hard. "This is bigger than you know."

"Oh, I know plenty," Sherlock said. "And if you really know how big this is, then you know why I can't leave."

Irene sniffed. "Well… that doesn't mean I can't wish you _would_." She pulled her hand away and folded her arms under her breasts. "Can't blame a girl for asking." She looked over her shoulder, eyes suddenly gone wide. She looked back at Sherlock. "I should be going."

Sherlock's eyes flicked out, taking in the darkness of the forest beyond. "Are you being followed?"

"I can't tell anymore."

"That hardly sounds like you."

"Says the man working a case with four other men. And to think there was a time I'd never have believed your ego would allow it." Irene smiled, pulling her coat closer around her and turning. "Goodnight, Mister Holmes."

Sherlock watched her take the first few steps before saying, "and what's to stop me from restraining you? Right this moment? I know for a fact one of my companions would be eager to have a word about the compromising position you put his brother in."

"It's not _my_ fault the moose is slow," Irene said over her shoulder, pulling her phone out of her pocket and selecting a few digits. Her eyes flicked up to his and she smiled. "Besides, if you wanted to do that, you'd have already done it." She pressed the send button on her phone, began to lift it to her face, then stopped. She ended the call and turned to face him. "I wish you would listen to reason, Mister Holmes."

"Reason is what compels me to stay."

She smiled. "Your heroism would be surprisingly _sexy_ if it weren't so remarkably _stupid_." She re-entered the numbers and started away. "Until tomorrow night, Mister Holmes."

Sherlock said nothing, merely watched the woman disappear into the shadows of the wood. He stood a long while in moonlight, listening to the crickets and the songs of patrons making their way from the pub to their cars. At the sound of footsteps behind him, he turned to look over his shoulder.

Sam Winchester smiled at him. "Hey. You're missing out."

Sherlock smirked. "More '_Penzance'_?"

"Uh, no," Sam laughed. "It seems they've moved on to the Beatles discography."

"John still singing?"

"He's harmonizing with Dean now."

Sherlock chuckled, deep and full.

Sam laughed, nodding toward the pub. "You coming?"

Sherlock gave him a weak smile. "Yes, just… give us a moment."

"Okay," Sam said. "Don't be too long, they're calling for last rounds. You want anything."

Sherlock shook his head. With a soft smile, he murmured, "thank you, Sam."

"No prob," Sam said frowing. "Hey, uh… call me crazy, but… you okay? I mean…"

Sherlock gave Sam a sidelong look, then turned back to the forest. "Just… thinking."

"Mind if I ask what about?"

"Not at all."

"Alright. What you thinking about?"

"Mycroft."

"Your brother," Sam chuckled. "Okay, to be expected, I guess. Why?"

Sherlock shook his head. "This… place, this event… the whole thing seems very… odd."

"Odd how?"

Sherlock nodded back towards The Green Pig. "For one, his choice in lodgings."

"Hey, it's not perfect, but—"

"We shouldn't have lodgings in the same township as a case. It's the mistake of a novice, one Mycroft would never make under normal circumstances."

Sam frowned. "So… what? You think your brother's game is off?"

Sherlock let out a breath through his teeth. "Not sure. This case _reeks_ of his usual meddling, but…" Sherlock shook his head. "God is in the details, Samuel. And some of the details are… off."

"It almost seems too easy, right?" Sam murmured, staring up at the full moon. "Like…"

"A trap," Sherlock finished.

Sam folded his arms across his chest. "You think it might be?"

"I think it's safest we be prepared for the worst tomorrow evening," Sherlock said with a shrug.

Sam nodded. "Fair enough." His eyes swept over the looming dark of the forest. A chill went through his body and he shuddered. "Hey," he chuckled. "I'm going to head back in, okay? See you inside."

Sherlock watched Sam walk the path to the pub, then looked back out at the forest. The cricket's song was louder, almost deafening it seemed against the vast silence of the small town. He stood as long as he could stand, then when the not-silence became too much to bear, he climbed the cobbles back toward the sound of a multi-toned rendition of "_All You Need is Love."_

Perhaps he'd even join in a verse.

* * *

><p>Dean smoothed the tux out, did a circle to examine himself in the tiny bathroom mirror. "You know what's weird?"<p>

Sherlock raised an eyebrow in the direction of the voice. "That even regarding the sheer amount of greasy food you eat on a daily basis you can still fit into a tux that was fitted for you three years ago?"

"Ye—wh, _NO!_" Dean stormed out of the bathroom, glaring at Sherlock who was sitting on the opposite end of the couch from the Doctor, both of whom were chuckling. "No, I was going to say the weird thing is that this is the tux Bela bought me."

John frowned, knotting up his bowtie. "Really?" He paused a moment, then added, "um, explain to me why a woman you consistently refer to as a "hateful bitch" would have bought you a tux?"

"Funny story, actually," Sam said as he checked his cufflinks. "She worked a case with a once."

The Doctor frowned. "What happened?"

Dean snorted. "Okay, so that's the best part, right? She stole from us, then needed us to bail her out when the relic turned on her." He gave Sam a sidelong look. "Should have let the bitch burn, Sammy."

Sam just shook his head ansd said nothing.

"The best part?" Dean continued. "She paid us off afterwards. Said she didn't want to be in our debt."

"You're joking," John said, frowing.

Dean shook his head. "10K between me and Sammy. Now I'm not complaining, but she'd rather cough up a wad of cash rather than handing over the olive branch."

The Doctor looked troubled as he murmured, "sounds like she's not one to trust others. At least not easily."

"Uh, _wrong_," Dean snapped. "She's just not to be trusted… _ever_."

"You think we'll run into them tonight?" John asked.

"That's almost a for sure deal," Sam said pulling out his laptop. "I was going over the details your brother's secretary sent. If they're after the spear, they'll _have_ to be there." Sam turned the screen to face the others. "I mean, we're talking cutting-edge security on the homestead alone. Everything he's got he keeps in these three vaults and the stuff only comes out every four or five years when this Glendower guy does these parties. Super-elitist and super-_exclusive_. There's not even a hundred names on the guest list, and nobody brings a 'plus one' without written consent."

Dean made a face. "So how'd we get cleared so easily?"

"Sherlock's brother," John replied. "He's the British government, remember?"

Dean nodded his approval. "Think he's told Glendower that a bunch of criminals from London are after his stuff? Given him a heads up?"

Sherlock let out a soft breath. "_Please_. If Mycroft merely wanted the piece safe, he'd have called Glendower, cancelled the party and sent an armored car to London with the fragment. And if that was the case, why call us at all? No, Mycroft wanted us involved, which means he wants these people caught. He wants us to catch them in the act and bring them in."

"Which means we can't risk giving ourselves away once we get in there," John added. "We so much as _sneeze_ wrong, this Glendower chap might just call the whole party off."

Dean nodded. "Party gets called off, they go to ground—"

"Or worse," Sherlock said, hands pressed together under his chin. "No vault is safe. Not where these three are concerned. If this Bela Talbot is as good as you seem to think she is, and if she's nearly as good as the woman or Moriarty, the worst thing that could happen is that those items go back in those vaults because nothing, not retinal scanners, not voice identification, _nothing_ will keep them out."

"Which means we need to get it first," the Doctor murmured. "The only way to keep them from getting it is—"

"To take it ourselves," Sherlock finished.

"Sorry, hang on," John said, looking between the two. "You're suggesting we go to a high-security party and steal one of the items on display while under the gaze of dozens of cameras, security officers, and then somehow manage to get ourselves out undetected?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Yes, obviously."

"Oh, fantastic, great," John muttered. "_How?"_

Sherlock stood from the couch, crossing to Sam's computer and pointing on the screen. "There are three galleries within the Glendower estate. The main foyer will be hosting the modern art display for the first hour of the evening, then the west gallery—housing relics and documents dating from the last century—opens at nine. The east—containing artifacts that predate 1000 AD, will open at ten." Sherlock turned to face the others. "We've two hours to enter the room, find the item, and leave before anyone notices."

"Is Cas coming along this time?" Sam asked in Dean's direction.

"What, are you kidding?" Dean stammered. "Can you imagine Cas at a dinner party?" He sighed. "Not to mention, he's not picking up his angel beeper."

John frowned. "Still no word from him?"

"Not so much as a note," Dean said with a shrug. "It's _fine_. We don't need Cas for this, alright? We've done plenty of jobs in the past without him, we can do it again." Dean shrugged. "Might just take us a little longer to find the piece this time."

"Alright," Sam said. "What about the, ah… cameras?" He was already typing away at his laptop again. "Okay, looks like there's five on that floor. Aaaaaaand…" He pressed a button, turned the screen to Sherlock. "Two guards scheduled for security, but from the sounds of it, there's only one patrolling, the other will be in the booth."

"Personal security?" Sherlock asked.

"_Private_," Sam said shaking his head. "Hired, but not employed by Glendower himself."

"So he's not intimately acquainted with his personel?"

Sam smiled. "Nnnnnnope."

Sherlock smirked. "Perfect."

"W-wait, hold on," John said, holding up both hands. "Before this gets any crazier, let's take a moment and just…" He pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. "Is this really a good idea? I mean, this is _the_ _Spear of Destiny_ we're talking about. Weapon of untold power, wanted by heaven and hell, it's a bit like sticking your hand in a blender, innet? I mean, what happens if one of us picks it up and…" John shrugged. "I don't know, Lord of the Rings sort of jumps to mind, doesn't it?"

"You think he might go Frodo," Dean murmured.

John shrugged. "Castiel said this was the largest of the three pieces."

"But it's not like we have a choice, right?" Sam murmured. "I mean, I get being worried, but… it's that or just wait for Bela and the others to get their hands on it." He shrugged. "It's… a mess no matter how you slice it."

"Rock and a hard place," the Doctor mumbled.

"So," Dean murmured, looking at the others. "How are we going to do this?"

Sherlock began undoing his tie. "I've an idea."

* * *

><p>John walked up to where Sam was leaning against the wall, scanning the room in silence. "Seen anything?" John asked, handing Sam one of the glasses of wine he'd picked up from a passing waiter.<p>

Sam nodded. "Found Glendower," he said, indicating the top of the staircase with his glass. "Busy guy, working the room, but beyond that, nothing."

John glanced about, not for the first time, wishing he had Sam's height. "Think our friends are here?"

"I don't think we should rule it out," Sam muttered as the Doctor walked up to them.

The Doctor nodded in the same direction Sam had. "Glendower."

"I saw," Sam murmured. "Any sight of Bela or Irene?"

The Doctor shook his head and lifted his glass to his mouth. He took one mouthful and his eyes went wide. He lowered the glass and spit the red liquid back inside. A waiter walked by and he set the glass on the tray the man was carrying.

John was already shaking his head, murmuring a soft chant of, "No. Mm, nope, no, no, no. No." He dumped the glass into a nearby planter and looked at the Doctor. "No, see, this is why we can't have nice things."

"Wait a sec," Sam said to the Doctor as John went to discard the now-empty glass. "I thought you were going to help out Dean and Sherlock.

The Doctor made a face. "Well, it… the door, right?"

"Yeah, what about it?"

"Wood."

"Uh, yeah. Most doors are."

The Doctor produced the sonic screwdriver from his pocket, twiddled it in the air, and held it out to Sam. "Doesn't do wood."

Sam stared at it. "You're kidding, right?"

The Doctor slid it back into his pocket. "Nnnnnnope."

Sam nodded slowly. "Okay. Yeah. Awesome. So…" He shrugged. "How are Dean and Sherlock getting in there, dare I ask?"

The Doctor shrugged. "Dean said he'd take care of it."

The two security officers looked up as the door opened. One of the other security officers was dragging in a man in a tuxedo, singing a Beatles song off-key at the top of his lungs. "What's this, then?"

"Caught him causing trouble outside the East Wing," he said. "He's utterly pissed."

"Mmnot angry mdrunk."

"Oh," the security guard snapped, shoving the man into a chair. "And American too boot."

"Haven't you seen the way these folk have been knocking back the stuff?" the other guard asked, nudging his companion at the desk. "He's just the first of many, you mark my word."

"Wonderful," the officer who'd brought the man in muttered. "Can it get any worse?"

"Yep," the officer responded. "Kenny called in sick, so we're short a man."

The man who brought the American in frowned. "So, it's just the three of us?"

"Well, considering by the time the temp got here they party would be over, yeah. It is."

The American's head whipped up. "Awesome."

He dealt a single blow to the man's face while the officer who'd escorted him in used the butt of his gun to strike the other officer out of his chair. A second blow to each and both were unconscious.

"Dude," Dean chuckled, unfastening his cufflinks. "We _**so**_ kick ass."

Sherlock smirked. "Agreed," he said, pulling off security uniformed hat off the top of his head and setting it on the console. He slid into one of the seats, began typing as Dean leaned in over his shoulder.

"What does it look like out there?" Dean asked.

"Quiet as a tomb."

"Meaning—"

"Meaning be prepared for anything," Sherlock said. He nodded at the guard on the floor. "Front right pocket, the key with the red 'x' on the handle. That should get us into the East Wing. Have you texted Sam yet?"

"Doing it right now," Dean said, punching in the message on his phone.

* * *

><p>Sam pulled his cellphone out of his pocket and examined the message.<p>

_send the doc. 2nd hall 3rd rm on right._

Sam frowned and began typing out a new message.

_That's the opposite direction of the East Wing. Where the hell are you guys?_

A few seconds, his phone buzzed again.

_in the security booth_

Sam's frown turned to a mildly panicked confusion. _Why are you in the security booth?_

_stop bein a bitch n send the Doc!_ Sam was about to respond when another message interrupted. _n i can c u standing there so dont tell me u told him already_

_Where's the nearest camera?_

_ur left why?_

Sam turned promptly and after he was certain no one else was looking, held out his middle finger to the lens. His phone buzzed.

_cute_

_He'll be on his way up in a second, okay? Now stop texting me_. Sam made his way down the hall where the Doctor and John had gone off to. His phone vibrated. With an irritated sigh, he opened the device. There were several lines of blank space and in the middle of the final line, a period, a long underscore, and another period.

_What the hell, Dean?_

_it's a whale lol_

Sam rolled his eyes. _Don't make me turn off my phone._

Sam made his way through the crowd. Although a guest list of one-hundred people didn't seem like a lot, it was enough to make getting from one end of the manor to the other more than a little difficult. He made it out of the hall and into one of the larger rooms where the Doctor was pointing to a painting.

"Met him before," the Doctor was telling John. "Well, not yet in his timeline, but yeah… he does good work. He's gonna be pretty famous in ten or so years, so—"

"Hey," Sam said, stepping into the conversation. "Dean and Sherlock need you upstairs."

The Doctor frowned. "What for?"

Sam smirked. "Well, not for a wooden door this time."

The Doctor sighed, handing John his glass of wine. "I better see what they need, then."

"Second hallway from the top of the grand staircase, third door on the left," Sam recited as the Doctor disappeared into the crowd. He looked at John and frowned. "Uh, he hates wine. Why the—"

"He felt left out," John said, nodding at his own glass.

The two stared at each other a moment, then began to laugh.

"Man," Sam murmured. "One second it's like travelling with the oldest, wisest, most amazing guy in the universe, and the next it's like—"

"Babysitting a kid still in primary school?" John smirked. "Yeah, I've noticed. What's he doing upstairs?"

Sam shrugged and gestured upwards. "Dean just said they need him in the security booth."

"Mm," John said, nodding. "Sounds promising. Wh…" His words trailed off, eyes gone wide and distant.

Sam frowned at him, then followed his gaze to the top of the staircase.

There, at the top of the stair, chatting amiably with an older couple, was none other than…

"Irene," John hissed, already pushing his way through the crowd, Sam in tow.

* * *

><p>"Good, you're here."<p>

The Doctor looked around the small booth. "Sam said you needed me."

Sherlock, not looking up from the string of code he was entering into the computer console, nodded. "We need someone to watch the screens. The door takes three people to open."

The Doctor frowned. "How do you know that?"

Sherlock pointed to one of the screens. "One person has to enter the code and swipe the first of two keycards on the computer on that side of the door. Someone must do the same on the console located on the other side of the double doors, as well as here in the security booth," Sherlock said, pointing to the keycard reader atop a numberpad on the wall. Sherlock was back to typing in the same moment. "It's a small enough window that it will, in fact, require two people downstairs."

"And we really should have someone watching the cameras."

The Doctor looked in the direction of Dean's voice as the man stepped out, holding out both hands and doing a little turn. "How do I look?"

"Like a proper security officer," the Doctor said, beaming.

"Assuming he does not open his mouth in public," Sherlock murmured. "Unlike his brother, Dean has proven time and again he cannot sustain the illusion of being English in any sense of the word."

Dean frowned, folding his arms across his chest. "The hell is that supposed to mean?"

Sherlock sighed and began to give Dean a once over.

Dean started waving his hands about, shouting, "no! No, would you stop? With the looking, like everything I do has a friggin' label attached to it like you can just read it like it's a stupid pop-up, or…" He sighed. "I just won't talk, okay? That make you happy, Sherly?"

"Quite, in fact," Sherlock said with a smirk.

"Stop it," the Doctor chided, giving both a look. He slipped a pair of glasses out from his coat pocket, put them on his face and leaned in toward the main screen, squinting.

Sherlock frowned, stopping what he was doing to look at the screen. "What?"

"Thought I saw something," the Doctor murmured. "Maybe a blip or, y'know… maybe not a blip."

"Maybe we should get down there," Dean said.

"Agreed," Sherlock murmured, rising from the chair. He fell into step next to Dean, closed the door behind them, and together, they made their way down the darkened hall.

* * *

><p>John took the steps two at a time, muttering apologies as he elbowed past dignitaries and the social elite until he was close enough to catch the elbow of the woman in the backless, lace dress. She turned at his touch, blue eyes wide with surprise. The expression was gone in that same instant, back to a smile. "Doctor Watson. How nice of you to join us—"<p>

John was already wheeling her back into a corner, his grip white-knuckled on her arm and his voice lowered to a hiss. "What the _hell_ are you doing here?"

Irene's blue eyes flicked over his face. "You _know_ what I'm doing here," she snapped. "Or at least, judging from your very _blatant_ manhandling, you suspect." Her eyes glanced over John's shoulder, and she murmured, "perhaps a little less display of force?"

John looked over his shoulder. A few of the dinner couples were staring now, Sam doing his best to shadow them and failing. John cleared his throat and released Irene's arm, smoothing out his suit.

Irene rolled her shoulders back. "That's better," she murmured. She looked from John to Sam and back to John. "For future reference, gentlemen, you might want to do a bit more research before you come barging into a gathering like this. Though I have to ask who tipped you off… not your angel boy, I imagine. No…" Her nose wrinkled. "No, this _reeks_ of Mycroft Holm—"

"Give us one reason not to call you out," Sam said. It was a statement laced with threat. "One reason not to just _drag_ you out of here. Bela, too, since I'm going to bet she's nearby."

"Oh, bravo," Irene said, eyebrows going up. "Spending time with Sherlock is improving your deduction skills." She nodded. "Bela's over there… chatting up Mister Glendower, if you must know. As for your threats…" She shrugged, smiling at them. "Go ahead. Try it. Let me know how that works out for you, gentlemen."

John held her gaze. He smirked, shaking his head, but never letting his eye contact break. "You're bluffing—"

"Am I?" Irene asked. "Look me directly in the eye, John Watson, and tell me, for a moment, if it looks like I am bluffing."

John held her stare, his throat working. Then, slowly, he said, "then you've done something to him. Mind control, or… dunno, maybe you just know what he likes, isn't that your usual turn of phrase?"

"Mm," Irene chuckled. "Aren't you boys _quaint_?"

"Blackmail?" Sam asked. "Extortion?"

"Adorable," Irene said, "but nothing so _wicked_ as any of that."

John grabbed Irene's arm again, hard enough that the barest wince could be seen in her eyes. "That's enough!" he snapped, straining to his voice down. "What are you planning, Irene? Tell me!"

"Irene?"

Bela was crossing the room pushing through the throng. Mister Glendower was close behind.

"What's going on here?" he bellowed, eyes moving between the two men.

"Sir," Sam asked, "we're going to have to ask you to remain calm, if you'd just—"

"Stop manhandling her!" Bela shouted, grabbing Irene's other arm and pulling her away from John. "Stop it! What are you doing here?"

"We could ask you the same question," John snapped.

"It's just a small bruise, don't fuss," Irene muttered as Bela examined her arm.

"Don't fuss?" Bela shrieked. "He's hurt y—"

"Sir," John said, pointing at the two women. "These two women are not who they seem."

"Aren't they?" Glendower murmured, eyes narrowing.

John was already shaking his head, Sam jumping in to the conversation. "Sir, they are here to rob you. I don't know what these women have told you, or what they've led you to believe, but—"

"How _dare_ you!" Glendower snapped, his expression twisting with anger. "Speaking in such away about my goddaughter?"

Sam's eyes went wide. "What?"

* * *

><p>Sherlock shone the flashlight down the darkened hall, assuring for the third time that they were truly alone. He looked at Dean and gave him a nod.<p>

Dean reached down for the shortwave radio attached to his chest. "Okay, Doc. We're ready for you down here."

"Alright, then," the Doctor's voice crackled over the frequency. "On my mark, then?"

Sherlock readied the keycard. Dean did the same.

"Alright now, three… two… one."

The cards were all swiped in the same instant, and deep within the walls, something clicked. They entered the numbers in silence and a final, louder click signaled that everything was in place.

The Doctor's voice came over the radio again. "Did it work?"

Sherlock reached down to the double doors, turned the handle and pushed. Dean took point, pulling out his gun as Sherlock did the same. The East Wing was massive, almost black in its darkness contrasted by the long broken squares of light cast down across the cases by newly waning moon outside.

"Looks like it," Dean murmured over the radio.

"Looks clear as well," Sherlock added. He crossed the wall, flicking on the light switch.

Nothing.

Sherlock tried it a few more times before he sighed and lifted the gun back up to eye-level. "Power severed. Of course."

"So we stay on our guard," Dean said, holding up his flashlight. "Come on… it's got to be here somewhere."

* * *

><p>John blinked. "Hang on, wait, no, she…? She's your <em>goddaughter<em>?" John asked.

Sam shook his head. "Oh, you've got to be kidding—"

"Does it look like I'm joking with you, gentlemen?" Glendower snapped. "Invitation from Mister Holmes or not, this the most astoundingly brazen display I've ever—"

"Are you alright?" Bela asked, taking Irene's face in her hands.

Irene nodded. "Fine, love, really, I just—"

John was just shaking his head, barely hearing a word the Glendower was saying anymore. "This is wrong," John murmured to Sam. "What's going on here, Sam? What in the hell—she's here to steal your things!"

"Uncle Brynn," Bela said, barely keeping her voice level. "I think we're leaving."

Glendower turned to her, momentarily forgetting about the two men in front of him. "Abby, my dear, don't—"

"Irene is feeling unwell." Her eyes snapped to Sam and John. "And I'm not in much of a festive mood myself, I'm afraid."

Glendower sighed. "I'll have one of the boys bring round your car. Will you be able to get home alright?"

Bela nodded. "We'll be fine, Uncle Brynn. Thank you. Perhaps we might come around tomorrow."

"Only if you feel up to it, love," he murmured, kissing her on the forehead. "Good night, Abby… Irene."

Bela, one arm around Irene's shoulders walked toward the staircase, only hesitating for the briefest of moments to smile at Sam through the curtain of hair that hid half her face from Glendower. John's jaw went tight and he stepped toward them, stopped by Sam's arm barring the way.

Glendower was already turning to them. "As for you, gentlemen, I'll only ask once. Remove yourselves from my premises, before I have you removed."

Sam held up both hands. "Sir, if you'd just let us explain? Perhaps in private?"

Glendower pointed. "Get out! _NOW!"_

Both men said not another word to each other, and walked away. Eyes from all over the manor were upon them, and Sam could feel his cheeks heating up. "What do we do now?" he muttered to John.

"Hope that Sherlock and the others don't botch it all up," John responded.

* * *

><p>"Have you found anything?" the Doctor asked, voice crackling over the intercom.<p>

"Hard to find something when you don't know what you're looking for," Dean grumbled. "I mean, so far, nothing that looks like what we're looking for. Bits and pieces, but nothing like what we need."

"Well, you've only got ten minutes before they open the wing," the Doctor said, his voice betraying his nerves. "You and Sherlock better wrap it up, before—"

"_Dean!"_

Dean turned at the sound of Sherlock's voice and took off running in that direction. "Hold on, Doc."

He slid down the banister, rounded the corner and nearly knocked Sherlock over as he came to a sudden stop. Sherlock's jaw was tight. He couldn't so much as look at Dean, still shaking his head.

Dean frowned. "What?"

"Just look!" Sherlock snapped, pointing.

Dean stared at the case. "_No_…"

Sherlock turned, shoving a stack of papers off a nearby display.

All the while, Dean just kept shaking his head. "You got to be kidding…"

"Dean?" the Doctor said over the radio. "Dean, are you there? Did you find it?"

"Yeah, we found it," Dean muttered.

"Good. Grab it and we'll—"

"It's gone, Doc," Dean said, rubbing a hand over his face.

"Gone? What do you m—"

"I mean it's not here, okay?" Dean shouted. "We found the case, okay, it's labeled 'spear heads and fragments.'"

"So how do you know it's not there?" the Doctor asked.

"There's a note," Dean muttered. "It's been… donated."

"There's more," Sherlock snapped. "Look at the trustee, _look_ who he's _given it to!"_

Dean shook his head. "NAPAC, what's that—"

"National Association for People Abused in Childhood," Sherlock rattled off. "But that's not it. The trustee, Dean, _look_ at the _trustee!"_

Dean's eyes went wide. "Son of a bitch."

The radio crackled. "Dean?"

Dean picked up the radio. "Yeah, I'm here. The case was donated to NAPAC… the trustee?" He sighed, looking at Sherlock. "Woman by the name of Abigail Kelly."

It was a long moment before the Doctor responded with an almost inaudible, "oh dear."

"Understatement," Sherlock snapped.

"No," the Doctor said. "I mean I'm looking on the camcorders and Sam and John are outside. That, and it looks like you've got trouble headed your way."

Dean looked at Sherlock. "Abort mission?"

Sherlock nodded. "Afraid so."

"Doc," Dean snapped into the radio, "get out of there and get back to the car, we're leaving." Dean kept shaking his head, walking toward the door marked with the emergency sign. "What the hell happened here tonight, Sherlock? What did we miss?"

Sherlock's eyes looked once more over the dark room, eyes narrow. "Something important… there's no doubt about that…"

* * *

><p>Jim Moriarty's cellphone began ringing. He pressed the answer button, but said nothing.<p>

"We're clear. Begin distribution at your discretion."

He smiled and with the touch of a button ended the call. He pulled a pair of latex gloves out of his coat pocket, pulled them on with a snap. He opened the small case on the table and pulled two vials from where they'd been encased in the black foam lining. Very carefully, he unscrewed the lid and applied the mixture generously to one glove. It poured like water, leaving almost nothing on the glove. He stared at it.

This had better be everything they told him it would be. Jim returned the lid, slipped both vials into his pocket, and opened the door.

The party was still in full swing, even with all the clamor from earlier that evening. And all the while, he sat in the backroom, waiting for a phone call. It was a near tragedy. He did love a good commotion.

But now to create one of his own.

He moved through the crowd unnoticed, spreading among them like a line of smoke. He passed a waiter, grabbed for a glass of champagne. He touched the rim, then opted to take a different glass instead.

He walked past a group where a woman was announcing, quite loudly to her husband, that she wanted another drink. He handed her his. She thanked him for his trouble.

He just smiled.

He shook hands with others, caught one of the waiters by his bare arm when he nearly tripped, gave him a pat on the back for good measure. He chatted up a woman, then told her she'd something on her face. He swiped at under her eye, showing her the eyelash.

She asked why he was wearing gloves.

He just smiled. "Weak immune system," he said.

One vial empty, Jim pulled off the gloves, discarded them in the bathroom and washed his hands with soap under running warm water. He pulled out his phone and pressed a few keys. It began dialing.

"Hello?"

"It's Jim," he said, glancing back at the party as he made his way toward the foyer. "Party's over."

Somewhere in some remote location, Crowley smiled. "Good work."

"Always."

* * *

><p>"This is bullshit!" Dean shouted, flinging the security shirt across the room. "How in the hell did we go from being the good guys to the bad guys in one night?"<p>

John shook his head, already working on Sam's laptop. "I'm looking at the webpages right here, Dean. Brynn Glendower is her godfather."

"But to protect her like that," Sam murmured, "A known criminal, wanted all over the world for thefts? You gotta admit, that's weird."

"Think he was possessed?" Dean asked.

Sam shook his head. "No… no didn't seem like it. None of the usual signs." He looked to where Sherlock was lying on the couch, eyes closed and brow furrowed. "Sherlock?"

"Mm?"

"What do you think?"

Sherlock's eyes didn't open as he moved to press his hands together under his chin. "Something's wrong."

Dean snorted. "Wow, hey, no kidding?"

"I'm not talking about the evening," Sherlock said, opening one eye and looking directly at Dean Winchester. He shut the eye and settled back into the sofa. "It was before this evening. Something I should have noticed."

"What?" Sam asked.

Sherlock sighed. "Well, perhaps I'd be able to remember if you'd all stop _talking_," he said, his tone taking on an edge.

"Yeah, well maybe if your stupid brother had done his research, we wouldn't have been sent down here just to get shafted by the Bitch-Sisters a second time!" Dean yelled.

Sherlock's eyes snapped open. "Mycroft?"

"Yeah," Dean said, rolling his eyes. "I know the guy's name."

"What about Mycroft?" John asked, frowning.

Sherlock pushed himself off the sofa, cellphone already in hand, texting rapidly. "Glendower wasn't compromised," he muttered through his teeth. "But I think I know who was."

Sam's eyes went wide. "Oh my God. You don't think…?"

Sherlock's phone pinged, and he held up the phone to Sam. What do you mean, Wales? Where are you? –MH

Sam shook his head. "How did we not—?"

"Does it matter now?" Sherlock asked. "All that matters is that the very people who we have tried to keep from getting their hands on that weapon now have it. All of it. It's just a matter of assembly now."

"How long will it take to assemble?" John asked.

Sam shrugged. "I've looked into the lore, but… I don't know. There's nothing about it. I don't even think there's any lore about the spear having been broken…"

"You okay, Doc?" Dean asked, looking at the man standing in the corner by the window.

The Doctor dropped the curtain, turned. "Sorry?"

"I asked if you were okay,"

The Doctor stared at Dean. Perhaps not so much at him as _through_ him. He looked far away, distant. "The crickets."

Everyone exchanged confused looks.

"What of them?" Sherlock asked.

The Doctor's gaze went back to the window. "They've stopped chirping."

Everyone stopped, listening intently to the sound of nothing outside the bedroom window.

"That's a bit weird, isn't it?" Dean murmured.

John glanced at him. "Yeah… more than a bit."

"Does it mean anything?" Sherlock asked.

Sam shook his head. "Nothing comes to mind…"

The Doctor was still staring out the window. "Something's wrong here," he mumbled, seemingly to himself until he looked over his shoulder at them. "Can't you taste it? It's like ozone after a lightning strike…"

John gave a little shudder. "Right, well, we can't do anything about it right now, so perhaps we should all try for a little sleep."

"Right," Dean murmured, then a little louder, "right, we'll sleep on it, and tomorrow we'll head out. Look for some answers. Everything looks better in the morning, right?"

"Nnnnnno," the Doctor mumbled. "No, not always."

"Either way," John said. "We're all rubbish right now, and we really do need some sleep if we're going to do any proper work in the morning, right?"

"John's right," Sam mumbled. "Let's sleep, but not too long. Let's try to be on the road by ten, okay?"

The others busied themselves with getting ready for bed while Sherlock excused himself over to the Doctor's corner of the room. He stood at the window, looking out over the same roving hills as the Doctor. "What are you thinking?" he asked.

The Doctor clicked his tongue, lowered his voice almost to a whisper. "That this is a trap… and you?"

"The same," Sherlock murmured. He glanced at the Doctor. "What do you really think we should do?"

The Doctor pushed away from the window, shaking his head. "I don't know, Sherlock… I really don't. All I know is I haven't felt this uneasy for a long time." He swallowed. "You can feel it too, can't you? The quickening?"

Sherlock didn't turn from the window. "Like a laser scope focused on the back of your neck. You don't have to see it to know it's there…" He dropped the curtain, turned to face the Doctor. "I don't like it."

The Doctor gave him a tired smile. "Well, like it or not, John's right. You do need some sleep."

"Sleep," Sherlock snorted. "Sleep is boring. All I need's an espresso."

The Doctor shook his head with a chuckle. "Oh, Sherlock Holmes… you know you're not feeling like yourself when you do that…"

"Do what?"

"Bluff."

Sherlock smirked. "Good night, Doctor."

"Good night, Sherlock."

* * *

><p>Sam didn't sleep well. His dreams were dark and filled with teeth and screaming. They always were, but this was different. There was no shape, no movement. Just the looming sensation of dread and cold fingernails underneath his shoulder blades.<p>

When he couldn't sleep any longer, he opened his eyes. He checked his cellphone on the bedside table. He was awake an hour earlier than they'd agreed. The alarm hadn't sounded yet. He looked over his shoulder at Dean, still deep in sleep. Sherlock, John, and the Doctor were much the same. He decided not to wake them. Last night's loss had been heavy enough they'd all earned the extra rest.

Sam walked on to the bathroom, careful not to make any noise. He ran cold water, splashed it on his face and neck. He held very still, turned off the water and listened.

Still no crickets.

He tried to shake off the feeling that he was missing something. Something big. Something right in front of him. He scanned his brain for any link between the silence of crickets and the supernatural. It was at the edge of his mind, he could feel it, and every time he wrapped his fingers around it, it slipped away. The harder he grabbed for it, the less he remembered. A second splash of water and he grabbed for the hand towel to dry himself off.

Perhaps a jog would clear his mind.

He grabbed a t-shirt from the floor, sniffed it and decided it was still good. At least good enough for him to finish getting dirty. He put on his shoes, checked the time on his phone one final time, and started downstairs.

He'd gotten only as far as the front area of the bar below, the massive glass windows that lined the wall, when he stopped, staring at the glass. Someone had written on it, deep long letters in red. The sun coming through the window shaded it in with yellow and scarlet.

It wasn't paint.

It took Sam half a second to remember why crickets would stop chirping.

He was up the stairs, taking them three at a time. Sherlock was already awake, standing by the window. He turned at the sound of the man lumbering up the stairs and frowned. "Samuel… what's the matter?"

"We need to get the hell out of here," Sam gasped, crossing over and shaking the bed Dean was still lying in. "Dean, get up!"

Dean's eyes were open in a moment, near-military training kicking in as he grabbed Sam's arm. "Sam, what's wrong?"

"We need to get to the car," Sam snapped, turned to see the Doctor shuffling out of the bathroom, John sitting up and rubbing at his face, mumbling, "m'up, m'up," repeatedly.

"Sammy, what's going on," Dean snapped, standing from the bed. "Talk to me?"

Sherlock frowned, staring down across the plaza. "Strange."

"What's strange?" the Doctor asked.

"The graffiti," Sherlock murmured. "Over half a dozen buildings tagged."

Dean frowned. "Graffiti?"

Sherlock turned to Sam. "Clearly that's what's got Samuel in such a rush. What does it mean, out of curiousity?"

"What does _what_ mean?" John asked.

Sam crossed to where Sherlock was standing, looked out the window. Sure enough, every building in sight had been tagged. There it was, staring back at him like a slap in the face. Sam swallowed hard. "It means we need to get the fuck out of Dodge. _Now_."

"Sammy, what's going on?" Dean snapped. "What does it say?"

Sam's throat worked. "Croatoan."


	7. Chapter 7

"We need to get out of here," Dean said. "Like, now. Like, _yesterday_."

Sam nodded. "We'll get our things and—"

"Nonono," Dean said shaking his head. "We don't have time. If it's not important, leave it."

"Sorry, did we miss something?" John asked, looking between the two brothers.

Dean looked at him. "We need to get to the car. _Now_—"

"Croatoan," Sherlock mumbled, still staring out the window. "Early 16th century, American settlement, Roanoke Colony headed up by a man, John White, friend of Sir Walter Raleigh's…"

"Wait, wait, wait, hold on," the Doctor said, holding up his hands. "This is familiar… Croatoan, why do I know this?"

"The Lost Colony, they called it," Sherlock said, almost to himself. "White was gone, and when he returned, the entire colony had disappeared. The only thing he found was the word Croatoan craved into a tree, he thought it meant the smaller island, that they'd moved on to it, but he never found them—"

"That's because Croatoan isn't a place," Sam said. "It's a demonic virus." He swallowed, looking over the group. "Turns everyone who catches it into… mindless zombies."

John snorted. "Zombies? What, like… '28 Days Later,' eating each other's faces off zombies?"

"Actually, _yeah_," Dean snapped. "A lot like that."

"But worse," Sam said. "These guys aren't _mindless_. They just get… hyper-violent. They can still think enough to wield a shotgun or break into a house—"

"Or The Green Pig," John said, starting to understand their situation.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, still staring out the window. "Or a car?"

Dean whipped around. "What?"

Sherlock pointed as Dean barreled toward the window. He stared in the direction Sherlock had indicated. The car had been moved several blocks away away from The Green Pig. Or at least someone had tried to move it. The hood was smoking and indented inside of it was the lamp post on the corner.

Dean pressed both hands to the glass. "Honey, no! Oh God, why?" Dean grabbed at the back of his head as Sherlock smacked him. "Ow! What the hell was that f—?"

"I think that requires a bit more of our concern, don't you?" he said, pointing to the streets.

People were coming out of the buildings and shops. Their walks were strange, lopsided. Some were carrying items; pots, pans, broken chunks of scrap wood or metal. Others dragged gardening tools alongside them.

John, Sam, and the Doctor were at the other window. John shook his head. "No. Nope, no, this is just…" He pushed away, running both hands over his face. "Alright. Alright, _fine_. So now what do we 789*-do?"

"We need to get to that car," Sherlock said, never taking his eyes off the soft shuffle of action occurring below them. "The guns are in the trunk."

The Doctor's eyes shot over to Sherlock, then to Dean. "You brought guns?"

"You know what, Doc?" Dean snapped. "I don't have time for your little bitch-fit, okay? Yeah, we brought guns! Yeah, we're going to use them! So spare me the lecture, because I am not in the mood to die today_, got it?"_

The Doctor's eyes narrowed. He shoved his hands into his pockets and teetered back on his heels, saying nothing. He didn't speak so much as a word to anyone as he walked to the small sofa and sat down.

Sam gave Dean a look, to which Dean snapped, "what?"

"Nothing!" Sam said. "Look, let's just…" He sighed. "We need a better plan than run across the street and go get guns. I mean, we're unarmed as it is, what happens if we just—"

"We're not entirely unarmed," John said.

Both Sam and Dean stopped, turning toward the sound of the voice. "What?"

"I said, we're not entirely unarmed," John repeated, walking to the table at the side of the bed he'd been using during their stay. He pulled his Browning from the top drawer, checked the magazine, reloaded it and pulled back the slide, chambering a round. "Six shots it better than none, yes?"

"You can't be serious," the Doctor snapped. "Look at the lot of you! Going to kick down the door, are we? Going out there, guns—sorry, _gun_—blazing and mowing down anything that moves?"

"Yeah, actually, and do you know why?" Dean shouted. "Because they _aren't people anymore!_ _This is a fucking demonic virus, there's no cure, and there's no way out but a shit load of ammo and luck!" _

"They're humans!"

"_They're meat shields!"_ Dean screamed. "And you know what, if we don't get out of here, they'll just make more. And more. And more, and keep throwing them at us until we're all so much meat."

"So that's your plan then?" the Doctor murmured. "Kill everything? Slaughter them like animals?"

"We don't have a choice, Doctor," Sam murmured.

The Doctor shook his head, let out a bitter laugh. "No… no, we always have a choice." He shook his head. "There's no cure?"

Sam shook his head. "It's… a weird virus. They get hyper-violent and… just sort of burn up from the inside out. Everyone of them out there is running a fever of at least one-hundred and ten degrees Fahrenheit."

"Jesus," John mumbled.

"Meaning their brains are already burnt to a crisp," Sherlock said as Sam nodded.

"It's simple science, Doctor," he said. "They're legally brain dead. They're not people anymore. Just… husks."

The Doctor ran both hands over his face. "How did it happen? How does something like this happen?"

Sam shrugged. "They can introduce it a billion different ways. Food. Water supply. It just takes a little."

"Wait, hold on," John said, holding up a hand. "How contagious is this virus, exactly?"

"Within the initial contact?" Sam asked. "Very. Airbourne, skin contact, I mean, it's lethal. The good news, I guess if you could call it that, is that with an outbreak this big, we're looking at secondary contact."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Meaning?"

"Meaning blood-to-blood," Dean said. "If they bite you or scratch you, any sort of contact with their hands… they'll have you. Then stage three."

"What's stage three?" John asked.

Sam shrugged. "The brain finally overloads and the body gives out."

"Could we wait it out?" the Doctor asked.

Dean shook his head. "Not a good idea. Used to be we'd see stage three in four days time, but now… it's lasting longer. Bobby kept a Croat in a secure location for three months. It was still kicking when he checked up on it before we left."

Sam was nodding. "And we know for a fact by 2014 they'll have a strain that doesn't burn out the host bodies. Just… perpetual zombieland."

"We're wasting time," Sherlock murmured. "The longer we discuss this, the more of these Croats are meandering into town. If we're going to the car, we need a plan. Now."

Sam thought a moment and then his eyes went bright. "Hold on… I've got an idea."

* * *

><p>John had been slicing chunks of fabric out of one of Sam's old t-shirts for a good thirty minutes, while Sherlock and Dean had set to stuffing the fabric into every bottle of liquor Sam and the Doctor were carrying up from the pub below. The Green Pig was stocked to the teeth with ales and liquors of every variety, and—as per Sam's plan—Molotov cocktails were on this afternoon's menu, and the everything was to be used. Everything except the bottle of thirty-year old whiskey Sam had brought up. Dean refused to let anyone turn that bottle into a bomb, and announced so loudly before taking a shot straight from the bottle.<p>

Sam rolled his eyes and went back downstairs.

The Doctor was busy putting together another case of cheap beer when Sam entered the back room. "That the last of it?" he asked.

"The very last," the Doctor murmured, hefting the box onto a table. He leaned on the edge and gave Sam a serious look. "So… these Croats…"

"Yeah, I thought you might have some questions," Sam murmured, leaning against the shelving opposite the Doctor.

"A few, yeah," the Doctor said with a sigh. "I want you to be completely honest with me, Sam. If you are not, I shall be very cross, and believe me… you don't want that."

Sam nodded.

"Alright. These people… the infected. There is absolutely no way to save them? At all, ever, that you know of."

Sam stared at the Doctor a long moment before shaking his head. The Doctor gave a grim nod, eyes trained to the floor as Sam said, "I'm so sorry, Doc… there's nothing we can do for them. When I say they aren't _people_ anymore… that's not me trying to sugarcoat it or justify loading them up with buckshot." He shrugged his shoulders. "It's… biology and it's awful and… I wish I had another answer."

"Then I've only got one more question," the Doctor said, eyes flicking up to Sam's.

Sam nodded. "Anything."

"Who did this to them?"

Sam swallowed. "Bela? Irene? A demon? Someone working with them?" He shook his head. "I don't know."

"Then we need to find out," the Doctor said. "And I need to have a few words with them."

Sam frowned. The Doctor's voice had changed. Something was wrong. Very wrong. But he said nothing about that to him. Just nodded and murmured, "yeah… okay, sure, just… let's worry about getting out of here first, okay?"

The Doctor didn't nod, just hefted the box and started toward the stairs. Sam took a deep breath and started off after him.

The room smelt strongly of liquor, enough to make Sam's head spin when he walked into the room. It was John who first looked up at him, glanced at the Doctor as he set down the case, before asking, "what's the plan?"

Sam shrugged. "Honestly, I don't know. I'm just hoping the fire will provide enough of a distraction for us to get across the street. What we need is to get those guns and get to a roof or something. Someplace higher than this where we might actually be able to see a car from."

"And to think I thought this was a small town when we rolled in," Dean chuckled. "Now I'm wishing it was one of those dinky one-lane places the road just kind of… ran through."

"Me too," Sam murmured before looking toward the window. Sherlock was standing, curtain pulled off to one side and frowning at the street below them. "Something wrong?"

"No," Sherlock said, dropping the curtain and turning. "That's what troubles me…"

John frowned. "You're troubled because we're not in trouble?"

"I'm troubled because it doesn't make _sense_," Sherlock said. He looked at Sam, gesturing at the window. "Why? Why go to all the trouble of turning an entire village if they're just going to wander back and forth not doing anything?"

"Trust me, Sherly," Dean muttered as he stuffed another bottle with fabric. "No news is good news when it comes to Croats."

"It's not like there's a remote-control," Sam said. "They can't just press a button and tell them to attack. They're mindless by now. Animals."

Sherlock sighed. "Animals can be herded, Samuel. If they set this trap, where is the sheepdog for the masses?"

The Doctor looked up for the first time in a long while. "They don't want to kill us."

Sherlock shook his head. "No, they don't… or at least not all of us."

"Not any of us," Dean snapped, setting the bottle down hard. "Look, I don't know what these dicks have planned, okay, but we're not dying today. We're not getting sheepdogged into anything, or torn to pieces or—"

"Say that again," Sherlock said, not looking at Dean.

Dean blinked. "What?"

"Say it again, what you said just a moment ago. Exactly as you just said it."

Dean glanced at Sam, then back at Sherlock and muttered. "Uh… okay, I said we're not dying, we're not getting sheep-dogged into—"

Sherlock spun to look at Sam whose eyes had gone wide. "It's—"

"—a trap," he and Sherlock finished in unison, the consulting detective adding, "yes, obviously. Sending us through the mulling herd and toward that building. The layout, the angle, it's all… too perfect. We're seeing what we were meant to see, going where we were meant to go—"

"Yeah, well not anymore," Dean said. "If it's really a trap—"

"—anything could be waiting over there," Sam finished.

John ran both hands over his face. "Jesus, it's a rock and a hard place."

"Yeah, no worse than we've been before," Dean murmured, standing. He sighed. "Alright, so… plan B."

"Plan B?" Sam asked.

"Yeah, plan B."

"We don't have a plan B—"

"So we make one!" Dean snapped. "I'm not planning on dying today, and I'm not planning on letting anyone else go down either."

"Two of us could do it."

Everyone looked at John.

He looked up at the others. "Just two… take the rooftops, stay out of sight… find a spare car. There's got to be one lying around here somewhere."

Dean frowned. "You think?"

John nodded and stood, taking his gun out of the backseat of his trousers. "It's just a look 'round. Nothing dangerous."

Dean nodded his approval and looked at Sam.

The younger Winchester was frowning. "It's _risky_," he murmured. "You rustle the Croats, and you're on those roofs with just nine rounds?"

John smirked. "That just means I can't miss."

Sam looked at each of the group members in turn. "Am I the only one who thinks this idea is insane?"

"You're the only one who believes it is not the most rational choice," Sherlock murmured.

"What, and you do?" Sam asked.

"Look, Sam," Dean snapped, "unless you have another plan B to pull out your ass, I think this is it."

Sam took a deep breath. "Okay, well… we're not sending John alone. Who—?"

Dean put up his hand. At the look Sam was giving him, he said, "what? Okay, who here in this room actually knows how to hotwire a car?"

Sam and Sherlock's hands went up.

Dean puffed out his chest. "Okay, who can hotwire a car in less than thirty seconds?"

Sam's hand went down. Sherlock's eyes narrowed and he lowered his hand.

Dean nodded. "Okay then. It's agreed." He turned and gave John a slap on the shoulder. "You and me, Johnny-Boy. To the roof?"

John nodded. "To the roof."

"Hey, boys?" the Doctor said as the two walked toward the window with the fire escape.

Dean turned just in time to catch what the Doctor had tossed to him; his sonic screwdriver.

The Doctor smirked. "I'll be wanting that back in good condition, Dean Winchester."

Dean glanced at the screwdriver, then tucked it into the pocket of his coat. "Yessir."

"Don't do anything foolish while we're gone," John said to the group, though his eyes never left Sherlock.

Sherlock rolled his eyes as Sam said, "we won't. Just get back soon."

Dean nodded. "If you hear two honks, get your asses downstairs and be ready to jump in. We've only got one shot at this."

"Be safe," the Doctor said.

"Always," John replied with a smile, opening the window. Dean went first, John following behind him.

Sam shook his head. "I don't like this."

"No one likes waiting," Sherlock said, tossing himself down on the sofa.

"Not talking about the waiting," Sam muttered to himself.

"They'll be alright, Sam," the Doctor said.

Sam stared at the window, muttered, "Yeah. I hope so."

* * *

><p>"I gotta say," Dean said as John brushed himself off. "For a small guy, you got some serious balls."<p>

John snorted and looked back at the rooftop behind him. "Wasn't that big a jump. Not compared to this one. Think we can make it onto that fire escape?"

Dean nodded. "Easy as pie."

"Alright," John said, doing a little bounce on his feet. He looked at Dean, smiled. "Mind the gap." And with that, he took off at a run toward the edge of the building. His feet left the ground, and he flung his body toward the fire escape. He landed hard on the metal, surprisingly soundless as he regained his balance. He pulled himself over and motioned for Dean to follow suit.

It was easier for the taller man, though he made a little more noise than John had. Both had frozen, looked below for any of the infected. Not a one seemed to notice them, though a handful on the streets began meandering toward the sound, grunting their agitation.

Dean looked at John. "Right, let's get climbing, yeah?"

They took the fire escape at a run until they reached the roof. By the time Dean looked back down the side of the building, the few Croats that had wandered into the alleyway seemed to have forgotten what they were doing there. One of them pushed the other, the other pushed back, and a fight broke out. Fingers that should have never been able to pierce through skin so easily moved in a blur, and in a moment, the few others were tearing the first Croat apart.

"My God," John said, voice lowered to a whisper. "You weren't joking."

"Nope," Dean whispered back. "When I said animals… I meant animals." He looked at John. "And they'll do the same to us if they get the chance." When John continued staring at the scene below, Dean gave his shoulder a shake. "Hey, come on. We got things to do."

John nodded and looked away from what was now nothing more than a pile of meat and gore. "Right, right…" He cleared his throat, muttered, "let's keep moving, then…"

* * *

><p>"I don't like this," the Doctor mumbled, half draped over the couch, half spilling onto the floor. "The <em>waiting<em>." He stared at the ceiling. "Is this what it's like all the time for you lot, just… waiting?"

Sam chuckled, still sitting at the window, occasionally peeking out through the curtains. "Loads of waiting in my line of work, Doc." He took a deep breath. "Some days that's all a body can do." He glanced across the room where Sherlock had taken to sitting in the small armchair, knees under his chin, arms folded across his chest, and eyes closed. "You okay, Sherlock?" he asked.

"Thinking," Sherlock mumbled, not looking up.

Sam nodded. "About anything in particular?"

Sherlock opened one eye. "Largely about how foolish we've all been." Closed the eye. "Stupid. _Blind_." The eye opened again. "I don't suppose shouting would be wise at this moment, would it?"

Sam shook his head.

Sherlock sighed. "Of course. Dull." He unfolded his body and pointed at the bag nearest to Sam. "Hand me John's laptop case."

Sam snorted. "What, you serious?"

Sherlock just made grabby hands at the bag and glared at Sam.

Sam sighed and picked up the bag, walking it over to the man who began rummaging through the front pocket. "What are you looking for?" Sam asked.

Sherlock held up a nicotine patch, fanned his fingers out to show the brother two of the patches. "Care for one?"

Sam smirked. "Uh, no. Not really."

"Fine," Sherlock muttered, then opened both patches and slapped them on his arm.

"Is this really the time for—?"

"Shh," Sherlock said, staring at the wall and lifting a hand in Sam's direction.

Sam frowned. "But I ju—"

Sherlock's hand didn't move but he made the shushing noise again.

Sam glanced at the Doctor who sighed and mouthed, "Mind Palace Time."

Sam rolled his eyes and nodded. Of course it was Mind Palace Time. He plodded over to where the Doctor sprawled, torso on the floor, legs on the seat of the couch, fiddling with his glasses, and took a seat. Keeping his voice low, he asked, "what do you think he's looking for this time?"

The Doctor glanced up. "This time? I imagine he's still trying to put the pieces together." He propped himself up on his elbows. "Samuel, none of this makes any sense."

"Yeah?" Sam said with a bitter chuckle. "Welcome to my life on a daily basis."

"No, Sam, think about it," the Doctor murmured. "We're a threat to their spear-plan, so why not just string us up, get it over with? Why all the bells and whistles? The baiting, the traps… if they don't want us dead, what are they trying to do?"

Sam glanced at the consulting detective, sitting upright, moving his hands in the air in front of him. "And Sherlock thinks he's on to something?"

"Dunno," the Doctor murmured. "Maybe he thinks he can put enough like-evidence together and let you do the rest."

"Me?"

The Doctor smirked. "You're smart too, Sam. As is Dean, as is John, as is everyone of you. Absolutely brilliant." His gaze drifted to Sherlock. "I suppose this is new for him."

"What?" Sam asked. "Teamwork?"

"No," the Doctor murmured. "Friendship."

* * *

><p>John grabbed Dean Winchester's hand, pulled him up over the edge of the building. John looked him over. "You okay?"<p>

"Friggin' peachy," Dean mumbled, looking up at the steep jump they'd just come from. "How much more of this we got?"

"One more to go," John said, walking over to the edge of the building. "We should be able to see the other block from there. Hopefully with a bit more luck than we've had so far."

Dean chuckled. "Dude, I'll take a minivan and be dubbed a soccer mom for the rest of my life at this point. He stood at the edge of the building with John, looking down. It was about a story-drop to the terracotta cobbled rooftop. Dean nodded. "Bit steep."

"Bit, yeah," John agreed. He took a deep breath, smirked at Dean. "Nothing we can't handle, right?"

Dean chuckled. "Damn skippy." He gauged the jump with another chuckle under his breath. "Mind the gap, right?"

John smiled, nodded. "Always."

"Okay. Here we go." Dean steadied himself, had one false start, then actually let himself drop down onto the rooftop.

It was a longer jump than he'd expected, the clay roofing clacking under his weight and hurting his legs. He caught it early and turned it into a shoulder roll, absorbing some of the shock. Enough to keep from being seriously hurt, but not enough to keep his ankles from feeling more than a little sore. Nothing he couldn't walk off. He turned and looked up at John, gave him a thumbs up.

John nodded, looking at the edge he stood on and the roof below. He did a few bounces to prepare himself, shook out the last of his jitters and held steady on the edge of the roof. He dropped down.

He'd learned from Dean's mistake, planned on rolling once he'd hit the ground, but something was wrong. The ground was moving. He rolled to his feet and the ground kept turning under him. His feet struggled to push him forward, but the tiles were sliding loose. His hands flailed forwards, finding Dean Winchester's arm.

The elder Winchester pulled him up to safe ground and solid tiles, both watching as an entire row of terracotta shingles slid down toward the ground. There was a vacuum of silence that followed, just long enough for John to breathe, "Oh God."

The clay shattered on the walkway below, sent dark orange-red pieces breaking all over. Out on the streets the Croats looked up. In the alley way, the Croats looked up. In the meadows behind the line of buildings, the Croats looked up.

And then they started running. Directly toward the buildings. Below there were footsteps on the fire escapes, windows shattering open and doors being torn off their hinges.

Dean grabbed John's shoulder and began pulling him. "Run… _**RUN!"**_

* * *

><p>The Doctor sat bolt upright as Sam rose to his feet. Sherlock's eyes opened and he unfolded himself from his chair. "What's going on?"<p>

Sam was to the window in two big steps. He stared out below them. "They're moving." He looked at the Doctor and Sherlock. "They're headed in the direction of Dean and John."

Sherlock's jaw went tight and he pressed his hands together, angled them under his chin. "How many?"

"_All of them_," Sam said, turning back to the bed. He leaned over it and pulled up a duffle bag.

The Doctor frowned, now standing as well. "What are you doing?"

"What does it look like?" Sam snapped, tugging loose an object wrapped in a t-shirt. He unwrapped it to reveal a small knife with a wooden hilt and markings scrawled along the blade. He tucked it into his belt. "We've got to go help them."

"Samuel," Sherlock said, stepping forward, "_think_. This is suicide."

"And leaving them might as well be _homicide_," Sam said.

"This is what they want," Sherlock snapped, grabbing Sam by the forearm. "They want us confused, disoriented—"

"Actually, that's not entirely true."

The group turned toward the voice that had not been there earlier. There was small, bookish man standing at the top of the staircase in a sweater vest and glasses; Horace. On either side of him was a hefty gentleman, both of them patrons at the pub the night before. Horace smiled at the Doctor, as all three's eyes turned to solid, black pearls. "We just want _him_."

The Doctor's lip curled to a harsh sneer. "Well that's not going to happen."

"I thought you might say that." Horace glanced at the demon beside him and gave a nod, then started back down the stairs. The demon Horace had nodded to raised his hand to shoulder-level.

He was holding a revolver. And aiming it directly at the Doctor.

Then he smiled, trained the gun on Sherlock Holmes and Sam Winchester.

The Doctor felt his stomach drop. "_**No**__—!"_

The demon fired three rounds in the direction of two men while the other demon produced a crowbar from his jacket.

Horace pulled the phone from his pocket and began dialing. "We're with the package now. We'll be enroute in…" He listened to the sound of gunfire and shouting and smiled. "Five minutes." He walked through the foyer of the bar, smiling. "Yes, sir. I'm about to loose them now. Everything is entirely under control."

And with that, he exited The Green Pig.

* * *

><p>John and Dean were running from rooftop to rooftop. They'd gotten three buildings over, but it had done little to stop pressing of the hoard.<p>

"We need a better plan!" John shouted at Dean.

"No shit!" Dean screamed back. He hesitated, did a double-take and stopped running.

John turned and stared. "Dean, come on, we need to keep moving!"

"Yeah," Dean said. "Or we can hold our ground there." He pointed at the substation on the other end of the roof, a small covered unit that was all iron bars from floor to metal roofing.

John was shaking his head. "Not exactly the high ground."

Dean motioned. "Yeah, well this is the highest ground we're going to get." He nodded. "Cover me while jam the door," he said, picking up a length of chain and walking toward the roof access door.

John raised his gun, eyes circling the whole building, flicking between the fire escapes on either side of the building. He glanced at Dean as the man wrapped the first of the two chains around the door. "This is bloody _insane_, you know that, right?"

"Complete newborn in the world of zombies and demons and you think I'm the crazy one," Dean chuckled, securing the chain and giving it a tug for good measure. "That's almost adorable, Johnny-boy. Come on, let's get ourselves in that substation."

The first of the Croats made it up the fire escape on the east side of the building. Dean picked up a discarded socket wrench from the ground and beat it against the padlock on the gate. The Croats sprinted toward the noise.

John planted his feet beside Dean, lifted his gun. He took aim, took one deep breath. Held it.

One shot. Then a second.

Two Croats fell to the ground; clean headshots on both targets.

John let out the breath.

The padlock clattered to the ground and Dean pulled open the door. "Come on, get in." He began twining the second length of chain around the door as John continued to take slow, measured breathes. He looked over where the two Croats had fallen and then back at John. "You're a helluva shot, John."

John nodded. "It's a gift."

A deep, metallic clunk came from across the rooftop. The door to the roof began thudding forward, fists beating at it, shoving and struggling to break it loose.

Dean swallowed. "Well, let's hope that gift has a lucky streak included… because it looks like we're really going to need it."

* * *

><p>Sherlock had anticipated the gun. He <em>usually<em> anticipated guns. If they were not produced, he was pleasantly surprised. And if they were, he was never caught off guard. Anticipation allowed him to be quick. In this case, quick; but not quick enough.

He shoved Sam away from him, separating them both from the line of gunfire. Again, _not quick enough_. Two of the three bullets caught Sam in his left shoulder, sending him spinning to the floor and sending the knife, clattering across the room.

Sherlock fell backwards into a roll and was back on his feet as a fourth bullet sliced across the arm of his jacket. The near-miss sent electricity teaming through his body with a swimming pulse of adrenaline. He fought back against the rush, slowed his thoughts.

_Two men. No, two demons. Clever. Fast_. _Do what is not expected to be done_. _Do what is considered impossible._

The demon looked surprised as Sherlock lunged toward him, one hand raised to knock the gun from his hand. The demon lifted the gun, but Sherlock was faster, already bridging the gap between them, grabbing his wrist and twisting hard.

Behind him, Sam was shouting at the Doctor. "Get the knife!"

Sherlock barely heard the background noise, already being accosting by the second demon.

He, it, whatever one would classify a demon as, was fast. Faster than the one with the firearm had been. Sherlock saw him swing, pushed himself down toward the floor. Even then, he felt the crowbar brush through the dark hair on his head, just missing him. He felt the jarring movement as it made contact with the first demon's chest. The shock was enough to dislodge the gun from his hand, allowing Sherlock to grab hold of it.

He shoved himself away from the two, lifting the gun and firing two shots at the demon with the crowbar. Both chest shots. Both aimed directly at the heart. Red began soaking through the pale-colored shirt, saturating through until the red looked almost black.

Two shots should have been more than enough.

The demon looked down at his chest, the two bullet holes where a heart should have been keeping him on his feet. He looked back up at Sherlock, the other demon and chuckled.

Sherlock chuckled as well.

Then the demon lifted a leg, and with the strength of ten horses, kicked the detective squarely in the chest.

Sherlock flew across the room, landed flat against the far wall with enough force to crack the plaster. He fell flat on his face to the floor, coughing as he struggled to fill his lungs again. The whole room was spinning at different angles and he could barely push himself off the ground. The demon walked across the room, grabbing the gun off the floor and holding it right against Sherlock's head.

The demon smiled and pulled the trigger.

_Click_.

Sherlock's eyes snapped open.

The demon frowned, pulling the trigger again. _Click. Click, click-click—_

Sherlock smiled, only vaguely aware of the blood dripping down his nose. "_Stupid_. Revolvers only generally have six shots."

The demon's face twisted in rage.

"Sherlock!"

Sherlock looked in the direction of the voice, saw the Doctor shove the knife across the floor towards him. He snatched it off the ground as the demon turned the gun around, swung the hilt downwards toward Sherlock's skull. Before the movement could be completed, Sherlock shoved the blade hard into the soft underside of the demon's chin.

His eyes widened with shock as a vibrant yellow-red light lit him up from the inside out, casting the outline of his bones throughout his skull, bursting through his eyes and mouth. The light disappeared, and red gushed down the man's front as he sunk to the floor.

No sooner had he gone down than the second demon was standing before him.

Sherlock swung out with the knife, but the demon blocked him, kicked him hard in the ribs. Sherlock crumpled to the floor, only to have a hand grip him by the throat and pull him back to his feet. The assault came to a startling stop when a huge vase shattered across the demon's face, startling both of them.

"Oi!" the Doctor shouted, picking up another vase from the small table beside the sofa. "Boss said you're here for me, didn't he?" He held both hands out. "So come get me."

The demon glanced back at Sherlock, then to the Doctor. With a smirk, he released Sherlock's throat, letting him drop back to the ground and started toward the Doctor.

The Doctor shoved the vase in the direction of the demon's head.

The demon caught it with both hands, crushed it with little effort and dropped it onto the floor with a chuckle.

The Doctor blinked. "Ooh, bit not good. Wasn't expecting that."

The demon's eyes went wide, turned black as light illuminated his entire body in one, electric shock. Sherlock stood directly behind the demon, gripped him tight and jammed the knife into his side a second time for good measure. The body sunk to the ground, motionless.

Sherlock looked at the Doctor, who was staring at him. He nodded, breathing hard. "That was tedious," he mumbled. Just before his knees gave out.

The Doctor caught him by his shoulder, steadied him. "Whoa, whoa, Sherlock, hey… You alright?"

"Fine," Sherlock muttered, wiping under his nose again, smearing blood across his face. "Go to Sam." Sherlock propped himself up against the wall, shrugging off his jacket and pulling off his scarf. He stared at the scarf, now spattered with dark black where the blood was already setting it. He sighed. "I liked that scarf," he mumbled as the Doctor dropped down on the floor next to Sam.

"Are you alright?"

Sam took a sharp breath in through his teeth as the Doctor pulled him into an upright position. "Yeah… yeah, it's just the shoulder, nothing fatal." He tried to move his arm and let out a gasp. "A-ah! Yeah, okay, just… pain, that's definitely pain."

"Could have been your heart," the Doctor murmured, examining the wounds.

Sam nodded. "Would have been," he breathed as the Doctor examined his shoulder. "Thanks for that, by the way."

Sherlock nodded, still breathless as he wiped his face on his scarf. He gestured to the empty air, still nodding before he finally gave up the attempt at words and shrugged. "Well…"

"Yeah," Sam murmured. He began unbuttoning his shirt with his good hand. "Okay, bullets. Doc, you'll have to help me get this off, we need to get those bullets out, just…" He looked at the Doctor. "Doc?"

The Timelord was frozen, kneeling on the floor beside Sam, all the while staring across the room at the top of the staircase. He'd gone ashen, eyes wide.

Sam looked around at the empty room, then at the Doctor. "Doc, what—?"

"Sam… what… is _that_?"

Sherlock frowned. "What's what?"

The Doctor nodded at the empty air. "_That_."

Sam frowned. "Doctor, there's nothing there, just—"

A low growl cut him off. Sam felt his whole body go cold. He'd never seen one. He'd never wanted to. But that growl… he knew that growl. He'd never forget it. Not after watching one tear Dean to ribbons on the floor of a living room. Not after Ellen and Jo.

"That, Doctor," Sam whispered, staring at the empty air, "is a Hellhound."

* * *

><p>"How we looking?" Dean asked.<p>

"Two shots left," John shouted back. "You sure this will work?"

Dean shrugged, nodded, and shook his head all at one then made a high-pitched noise. "Eeeeh, yeah? Maybe? I don't know, I've only ever done this with a car battery, so—"

Another shot and a Croat fell to the ground. "Well, hurry it up!" John shouted as another three Croats climbed up the fire escape.

Dean pulled the last of the wires out, wrapped them around one of the iron bars. "Get to the center!" he shouted back at John.

John stepped back until both he and Dean stood in the middle of the small substation. No sooner had they arrived there than three Croats were on the gates, clawing and reaching for them. One of them snagged hold of John's jacket and he fired the last round right between her eyes. "Dean?"

"Got it," Dean murmured. He stepped forward as far as he dared, and kicked his foot out at one of the breakers.

There was a spark, and all at once, every Croat hanging on the cage began flailing. The smell of scorched flesh and smoke took to the air as they dropped. One of them leaned up against the bars, body gone limp, still crackling and popped against the now-electrified bars.

It took some time for the Croats to learn, at least twenty of them threw themselves at the cage, but soon they seemed to understand. They all just stood around the cage, screaming and yowling, walking the perimeter and trying to understand why these two were now untouchable.

Dean looked at John who was nodding. "Brilliant," he said, still gasping for air.

Dean nodded as well, sinking to sit on one of the plastic covers for the breakers. "Can't say I never learned nothing from Dad." He chuckled as one of the Croats grew impatient and threw themselves on the cage. Just like every other, no sooner did his hands touch than he fell to the ground, flailing. Dean jumped to his feet. "Yeah! Suck it! That's how we do it in America! Whoo!" He did a double fist pump and kicked out his leg. "_Boo-yah, bitches! __**SAY SOMETHING!**__"_

"Question, then," John said, raising a hand.

Dean composed himself. "Okay, yeah, sure, what?"

John gestured. "How we getting out of here, then?"

Dean blinked. Then blinked again. He looked at the bars and seemed to realize for the first time that this was not, in fact, an ideal situation. "Shit."

* * *

><p>The hellhound let out a fierce bark, making all of them jump. The adrenaline was making Sam's head rush, but helped him push the pain to the back of his mind. "Sherlock," he said, voice low.<p>

"Why can't I see anything, Samuel?" Sherlock said in a low, measured voice.

"Why can _I _see 'em?" the Doctor asked.

"Because it's here for you," Sam said.

"They."

"What?"

The Doctor's throat worked. "There's, uh… two of them, actually."

"Two?" Sherlock repeated.

"Look at them," the Doctor said, rambling to himself again. He smiled. "They're lovely! Well… aside from the burning eyes and razor teeth, they look almost remarkably cuddle, like giant saber-toothed badgers from the moons of—"

"Doc," Sam murmured, eyes fluttering. "Not exactly the right time."

The Doctor looked from the hounds to Sam then cleared his throat. "Right. Hellhounds. What do we do?"

"I'm not going anywhere, Doc," Sam chuckled. "Room's spinning, there's hounds in the room, I'm losing blood, and fast. You, though? Y-you need to get out of here."

The Doctor smirked. "Humans. You do tend to love being dramatic."

"He's not being dramatic, he's being _realistic_," Sherlock said.

Another bark startled everyone in the room. "Alright," the Doctor said. "That's about enough sacrifice talk—"

"We're done talking," Sherlock said. "Sam? That knife of yours? It work on these things?"

Sam's eyes went wide. With the last of his strength, he pushed himself upright. "Sherlock?"

Sherlock's gaze flicked over the younger of the two Winchester brothers. "Eyes dilated, breathing gone shallow. You were going to lie to me, Samuel." He smiled, twiddled the blade and caught it in a fist. "Whatever happens… it's been a pleasure. Truly."

The Doctor's eyes went wide as the dogs began to growl. "_Sherlock, don't you—!"_

Sherlock grabbed a handful of the shards from the vase, flung them at the top of the staircase. The pieces landed on what was not there, the outlines of two huge creatures. They rustled, shaking the dust out of their fur and snarling.

Sherlock kicked the smallest table towards them, using all the strength he had. It cracked against something, spattering black on the walls. There was the sound of yelping, of something large falling down the stairs and cracking the wood.

The second unseeable thing lunged at Sherlock.

He managed to swipe the blade somewhere important, splashing black on the floors. But it was not a fatal wound. Something snatched him up by the front of his shirt and with one strong movement, flung him down the stairs.

At the bottom of the stairs, the growling commenced.

Sherlock screamed. There was yelping and yowling below, the sound of glass breaking and tables shattering.

"No, no no, NO!" the Doctor screamed. "Stop this! Stop this right now!"

"You could stop it right now."

Horace had reappeared, was standing in the corner of the room. He pulled off his glasses, listening a moment to the sound of things being broken below.

"I want your word," the Doctor snapped as Sam sank to the floor, eyes closing.

Horace's eyebrows went up and he chuckled. "I'm not in sales, I'm in management and loss prevention—"

"You bloody well cut me a deal or I'm not going anywhere with you," the Doctor snarled.

At that moment, without so much as a sound, a man in a suit appeared. "So… _Timelord_…" He smoothed the front of his coat, checked his cufflinks, and smiled. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

The Doctor's eyes narrowed. "And you are…?"

"Name's Crowley, but there'll be time for more… proper introductions later—"

"Oh, no need for that," the Doctor said, his face gone blank. "I've already heard about you… _loads_ about you, in fact."

"Color me flattered," Crowley said.

"Nnnnnnno," the Doctor murmured. "No, they weren't very flattering things…"

Crowley gave a single dry chuckle. "Alright… _Doctor_. You called me here. So… make me an offer I can't refuse."

The Doctor smirked. "If I understand celestial physics right, you have no claim on my soul."

"I don't need your soul to make you a deal," Crowley said. "Though you might want to hurry up on those terms. I don't think your boy downstairs is doing too well."

"Stop it," the Doctor snapped. "All of it, right now."

"Horace take a note." He smiled at the Doctor. "Care to be more specific?"

"The Winchesters, Sherlock, John, leave them alone. You touch a hair on their heads, a hair more than you already have, the deal is off. Immediately."

Crowley snapped his fingers. The scuffle downstairs turned to silence. He shrugged. "Anything else?"

"The Croatoans," the Doctor said. "Change them back."

Crowley chuckled. "That's… not an option. I've plenty of tricks up my sleeves. That, however, is not one of them."

"Then let them go."

"Done," Horace said. "And in return, you come along quiet-like. No tricks, no fooling around…" He smirked. "And no regenerating." He held out his hand. "We have a deal?"

The Doctor reached out a hand, hesitated at the last moment and pulled it back. "You touch them, and I swear, I—"

"Please," Crowley said, rolling his eyes. "If there is one thing I am, above all else, I am a keeper of my word." He looked at his hand, then back at the Doctor. "Unless you'd rather a little kiss. It's only required for the, ah… heavier of the contracts."

The Doctor's eyes were narrow as he put his hand into the demons. He took in a sharp hiss of air as red flickered over his skin, words appearing in long lines the color of blood as Crowley gripped his hand tight. "There is, of course, the standard fine print detailing breeches in the contract on both sides, collection notices, early collection notices, subtext alpha through omega, and just the bit you just signed off on."

Before the Doctor could so much as blink, Horace was behind him, jamming a syringe into the Doctor's neck. His mouth opened, but no sound came out. The last of the Timelords fell to the floor with a heavy thud. "Think it will be enough?" Horace asked.

"Enough to get him there before he wakes up," Crowley said, frowning at the unconscious Winchester brother. He sighed. "Make certain they don't completely die before we finish, yeah? And do something about those Croats."

Without so much as a sound, Crowley disappeared. Along with the Doctor.

* * *

><p>John turned over one of the bodies with a nudge of his boot. "I thought you said weeks. Months even…"<p>

"I did," Dean murmured, looking at the bodies that had just fallen down around the substation. He'd disconnected the cables shortly after it had happened; all at once, every single Croat had just fallen to the ground. The pounding on the metal door to the roof had stopped. Even now as he looked down into the streets, across the lane and beyond, every single person infected with the Croatoan virus had just… stopped.

"This… is… strange," John said, glancing back at Dean. "It is strange, isn't it? Tell me it's strange."

"No, you're right," Dean said, nodding. "It's strange." He looked around the rooftop, eyes finally meeting John's. "We need to get back to the others."

* * *

><p>John and Dean took to the streets, hurrying as best they could back to The Green Pig. They broke into a run when they saw the broken windows, hurried inside.<p>

There was black sludge all over the floor. Broken bottles and tables scattered about. There was a huge puddle of the black, outlining what was clearly—

"Hellhound," Dean murmured, shoving himself toward the stairs. "They sent_ fucking hounds—Sammy!"_

"Dean!" John shouted after him, taking the stairs two at a time to keep up with him. "Dean, just…" He nearly ran right into Dean as the elder of the Winchesters came to a sudden stop at the top of the stairs.

Sherlock was holding an unconscious Sam Winchester in his lap, a wadded plaid shirt pressed over the man's shoulder, soaked in blood. Sherlock wiped a hand across his brow, smearing red over his pale skin as he struggled to swallow. He held up one hand as Dean crossed the last few steps, sunk down to the floor beside his brother. Sherlock clapped a hand on Dean's forearm. "He's going to be alright, just a shoulder wound."

"With what?"

"Bullets. Two, but fortunately, nothing critical was struck… He's lost quite a bit a blood, but nothing so severe he won't recover."

"What happened to you?" John asked.

Sherlock looked down as if noticing himself for the first time. He was a mess of black and red, his shirt ripped at the chest and shoulder and one pant leg torn clean off at the knee, the skin beneath the color of raw liver. He sighed, flapping a hand. "Nothing, just… a rather large creature with something of an ill-temperament."

"We need to get to the not-'pala," Dean murmured, standing again. His expression was serious, but his words seemed rushed. Panicked. "I've got a first aid kit in there we can use. We need to get the bullets out and stitch him back up and then we… wait… wait, hold on, just…" He stopped speaking, eyes darting around the room as if noticing for the first time something was wrong. He looked at Sherlock. "Where's the Doctor?"

Sherlock glanced up, his mouth opened. "I…"

John swallowed. "Sherlock… where is the Doctor?"

Sherlock held John's gaze as long as he could, then looked at the floor. "They… took him."

"Took him?" Dean shouted. "Took him where?"

John put up a hand. "Dean—"

"I don't know!" Sherlock snapped.

"Well then work it out!" Dean bellowed. "That's why you're here isn't, because your so _fucking_ clever, all the fucking time, so just figure it out—!"

"_Alright, that's __**enough**__!"_ John shouted, loud and harsh enough to silence the both of them. He looked between the two. "Now we can either sit here, shouting each other hoarse which—may I remind you—is probably exactly what they want us to do, or we can sack up, shut up, get Sam patched up, and then _we can_ _figure out what the __**hell**__ to do next!_" Sherlock had only just opened his mouth when John shoved a finger in his face without looking at him. _**"Shut up, Sherlock!"**_

Sherlock's mouth snapped shut and he and Dean looked at each other. Dean sighed. "Sorry, man, I didn't mean to—"

"No apologies required," Sherlock murmured.

"Right," John said, nodding. "Dean, you're with me. We'll go get that kit and I'll have Sam patched right up. Shouldn't take more than twenty, thirty minutes tops. Until Sam's stitched back together up, let's just focus on getting him that way, yeah?"

Dean nodded, crossing the room and taking the stairs one at a time. "Kit's in the trunk in a dark red bag. Should have everything you'll need in there, John."

John nodded. "Glad to hear it," he said, then turn to Sherlock. "We'll be right back, keep an eye on him, yeah?"

"Of course," Sherlock said, nodding. "Oh, and John."

John turned, blinking as he was suddenly pulled into a tight embraced. He frowned. "Uh, Sherlock?"

Sherlock just held him tight a moment more before pushing him an arm's length away. "I'm just glad to see you well."

John was still frowning. "Uh… yeah. Yeah, you too, hey, um… is everything alright?"

Sherlock's eyes crinkled. "Of course it is, why wouldn't it be?"

John scratched his nose. "Dunno, you just seem a bit…" He scratched his nose again, suddenly needing to sneeze. The room smelled staler, like blood, dust and…

John's eyes went wide.

Before Sherlock could make a move to stop him, John's fist collided with the underside of his chin, sending him toppling to the floor.

Dean was up the stairs in a moment, eyes widening as Sherlock tried to sit up.

In that same moment, John was across the room, grabbing the man by the tattered remains of his shirt and slamming his fist into his face a final time, hard enough to knock him out cold.

Dean grabbed John, pulled him off of the consulting detective, shouting, "John, what the hell?"

"He's not Sherlock," John gasped, shaking his head. "He's not Sherl—that's not Sherlock, Dean! What the hell is that?"

Dean stared at the man on the floor, not moving, and for the first time since he entered The Green Pig, he could smell it.

Sulfur.

"There's chalk downstairs on the menu board," Dean murmured. "Bring it up."

"Dean," John murmured, eyes never leaving Sherlock's motionless body. "Dean, I think he's been compromised."

Dean's throat worked. "I think you're right."


	8. Chapter 8

"What do you want me to do?"

"Keep an eye on him."

"I don't think he's going anywhere."

"And I don't think I asked for your opinion," Crowley said, looking up as he slipped the padlock on the last chain wrapped the Timelord's torso. "So… be a good _bitch_, and watch him. Yeah?" He snapped the lock shut, started toward the exit. "We've got thirty-six hours before the spear is ready." He spun around in the doorway, tossed Bela Talbot a little smirk. "Try not to fuck it up."

Bela folded her arms across her chest as the door shut with a clang, Crowley sealing the door from the outside with the large, turnscrew handle. She gave the man in the brown pin-stripe suit a sidelong glance. It would be sometime before he woke up, but according to Crowley, he wouldn't give her any trouble.

Well, no more than the average human.

"That went well."

Bela frowned, turned to look over her shoulder at where Irene was perched on the highest catwalks of the abandoned factory. She was wearing the slip she'd worn under the dress, her hair still pinned ornately over her head, her makeup gone. She'd been crying.

Bela's throat worked and she looked back at the prisoner. "I thought you were supposed to be sleeping."

"Can't sleep," Irene said with a bitter chuckle, rubbing at the dark circles under her eyes. "_Worrying."_

Bela let out a little sigh. "It's… fine. Everything is going according to plan—"

"Forget the plan, Bela!" Irene suddenly snapped. "I'm not talking about the plan, I'm talking about you!"

Bela glanced over her shoulder. "You certain you don't mean worrying about _him_?"

Irene leaned back, as though the verbal attack had been a physical one. She gave a soft laugh and with a good deal of effort, managed to pull herself back to her feet. "Right, of course That is… exactly it, how transparent I must be, how foolish of me to think you needed me worrying about _you_, I—" She turned to leave and Bela was on the catwalk, standing directly behind her, eyes wide and glassy. Irene put a hand to her chest. "You _must_ stop doing that, Bela—"

"You don't think I'm worried?" Bela said, her voice horse.

Irene held her gaze for a long while before stepping forward, hands reaching up to circle Bela's face. "Oh, Bela, please, don't cry, I didn't—"

"This mess, this whole stupid affair," Bela said, sniffling and struggling to keep back the tears. "This is so much bigger than us. Than everything." She shook her head. "It's too big, Irene."

"So let's go," Irene said, nodding. "Just… get our things and leave, tell him we're out."

Bela shook her head. "I can't."

"If you won't, I will. I'll go to him right now and—"

"Don't you understand?!" Bela screamed, smacking Irene's hands from her face. "_He __**owns**__ me!_ It's not a matter of loyalty or reason, it's a fact of my existence, I exist because he allows it, and he only allows it because I…" Bela's throat hitched and she breathed in a ragged sob. "Irene, please… I…"

Irene grabbed the other woman pulled her against her and rocked her back and forth, shushing her quietly. "It's alright, Bela," she whispered. "We'll figure something out… we'll find a way to get through this, right? We're survivors first and foremost, aren't we?" She stroked Bela's hair as the other women sobbed against her neck. "We'll find a way out of this one… I promise… I'll figure something out."

Sam winced as John pulled the last stitch tight, finished the knot and snipped the end. John examined his work with narrow eyes before looking up at the younger Winchester. "How does that feel?"

Sam gave a sigh that normally would be accompanied with a shrug, but he seemed to consider this and didn't move his shoulders at all. "Feels like I got shot twice in the shoulder." He managed a small smile. "Better than it did, though."

"We need to get you some food," John said, cleaning off the utensils in a small bowl of rubbing alcohol. "Something more than just those protein bars in the bag."

Sam sighed, eyes fluttering again from exhaustion. "John… we've got bigger things to worry about right now, don't you think?"

John's eyes only flicked up for a moment through the pale-colored eyelashes, then back to the tools he was cleaning. "I'll worry about that bridge when I come to it. Right now, you're my patient and we need to get you settled. Preferably before you go back to sleep, and yes, Sam. You do need sleep."

"I know," Sam said, watching as John set the tools back into the first-aid kit Dean had brought him before disappearing into the kitchen. He gave a little sigh, pushing himself to his feet and shuffling off in the direction John had gone.

John spent a moment looking over cans and turning over bags of rice and dried beans in his hands before noticing Sam was there. He jumped and pressed a hand to his chest. "_Jesus_… Sam, I'm serious, you really should be taking it easy right now—"

"Look, you were the one who said I shouldn't sleep," Sam murmured, too weak for anything else. "If I sit out there alone, I'm going to fall asleep."

John sighed. "At the very least sit down. You've lost an awful lot of blood. Here." He picked up an apple off the shelf and tossed it to Sam who caught it with his good arm. "Eat that to start. I'm going to see what they have in the fridge."

Sam did as he was told and started in on the apple. When John returned from the fridge, he was holding a vacuum-sealed package with a large, dark-red meat inside, smiling like he'd just won the lottery. Sam frowned. "What's that?"

"Liver," John said, walking toward the counter where the stove was located.

Sam nearly gagged on his mouthful of apple. "Dude, are you for real?"

"Absolutely," John said, turning the knob on the stove, waiting for the flame to light. Once it had, he walked to the large three-compartment sink, picked up a pan from where it hung overhead. "Honestly, if you don't like it, you've just never had it cooked right."

Sam made a face. "No, man, I… really don't think there's any way to cook liver and make it _not_ liver."

John chuckled. "Well, Sam Winchester, you're going to eat it, like it or not." He returned to the fridge for a moment and came back with a carton of milk. "My mother used to make this for Sunday dinner," he said, rinsing the meat. He set it in a bowl and then poured milk to cover it. "And it should do wonders for you." He washed his hands and found a cutting board. "Toss me a couple of onions, yeah?"

Sam leaned forward until he could reach the shelving and picked up two onions. He tossed one, then the other, John catching both of them with ease before starting to cut them up. The time ticked by in silence while John worked in the kitchen, gathering flour and spices and starting to moddle everything together in a pan. Sam let the silence continue even as John rinsed the meat, set it in the flour and began cooking it with the onions and the butter. Finally, it became too much for the younger Winchester.

He swallowed his mouthful of apple and asked, "you want to talk about it?"

John didn't look up from the pan. "Mm?"

"I asked if you wanted to talk about it."

"Talk about what?"

"You know what."

John continued to cook in silence, not looking at Sam. Not even looking at the meat. Just lost in the motion of work. "Talking about it isn't going to do us any good, is it?"

Sam sighed. "No, but—"

"And we need to find the Doctor, don't we?"

"Yeah, but—"

"Then what is there to talk about?"

Sam took in a deep breath through his nose. "Well, I—for one—think it's a shit plan."

John chuckled. "Well, considering that we're in something of a bind, I don't think we've much of an option."

"And you think it's a good plan?"

"I think it's a _solid_ plan."

"That's not what I asked—"

"Alright, you know what?" John snapped, turning from the stove, his voice level despite the fact that he'd just slammed the metal spatula down on the countertop. "Just stop this, Sam. We've a plan now, and we're going to go through with it, yeah?"

"And what about Sherlock?" Sam snapped.

"What about him?"

"You know he's still in there, right? You know he can see everything that's going on, demon or not." Sam swallowed. "I'm just… there's got to be a better way."

John gave a bitter laugh. "You're honestly going to try to convince me you've never done this before?"

"Not like this," Sam muttered. "Not like you guys are going to, and definitely not to a friend."

"But you _have_ done it," John said, eyes narrowing. "You have actually gone and done this before and… suddenly now you're going to try to convince me it's different?" He gave one, bitter laugh, added, "why, b-because you didn't know them, or…?" John ran a hand over his mouth, then pointed at Sam. "It's a double standard, Sam."

"I _know_ it's a double standard," Sam said, too tired to put much more effort into the argument. "But I'm not just worried about what this will do to him." His throat worked, his eyes finding John's again and holding his gaze a long while.

John picked up the spatula and turned over the meat in the pan. "I appreciate the concern, Sam."

Sam frowned at him. "But…?"

"But it's unnecessary," John finished for him, glancing up. "I know what I'm getting into. _Really_."

Sam gave him a tired smile, more sad than relieved. He was too tired to argue any more about this. "No you don't," he mumbled. He barely managed to keep his eyes open as John finished cooking in silence. He had been dozing off when John shook his good shoulder, offered a hand to help pull the man to his feet. The army-doctor sat Sam down at a table rather than the bar, as it looked like he could hardly balance himself, then brought him a plate of food. He watched Sam take the first bite, smiled when he conceded that it was not, in fact, as bad as he thought it would be.

He did not concede that he was actually enjoying the dish, though he cleaned his entire plate. He looked content, but more tired than ever. John managed to help the man back upstairs to the beds, not voicing his concern about how heavy Sam's footsteps had become or how hard Sam gripped his shoulder to steady himself. No sooner had the man set his head down on the pillow than he was fast asleep. There were footsteps on the stairs behind John, taking them at a brisk jog.

Dean leaned on the banister, staring at the sleeping form of his brother for a long moment before asking, "is he going to be alright?"

John nodded. "He will be. It's just been a long day. For all of us."

"Don't I know it," Dean muttered, rubbing his face. "And it's about to get a helluva lot longer." He looked at John. "Everything's ready."

"Then let's get to it."

Dean watched John test a knife on his thumb. John seemed to think better of it, and grabbed for the silver-coated scalpel instead.

"You done this before?" Dean asked. "Y'know, back in the, ah…?"

John glanced up for half a moment then turned his attention back to the box of tools Dean had brought in from the car. "Something like that," he murmured.

Dean nodded, watch John another few moments before asking, "you sure you want to do this?"

John cleared his throat, setting the scalpel aside and looking up for the first time in a long while. "It's not that I don't trust you, Dean, it's just…" He considered a moment, then murmured, "Sherlock, it's… still Sherlock in there and… I think it's only right that I be the one t..." His voice broke and he pressed a fist to his mouth, cleared his throat. He shut his eyes tight and began to nod. "Yes. Yes, I'm sure."

Dean gave a nod. "Okay." He patted himself on the chest. "Good cop," then grabbed John's shoulder, giving him a rough shake. "Bad cop."

John nodded. "Sounds like a plan."

"Yeah, sounds like a plan now, but it…" Dean stared at John a while before nodding. "Whatever you think it's going to be like, it's not going to be anything like that, just…" He gave John's shoulder another shake. "Be ready for it, alright?"

John nodded. "Oh, I'm ready."

Dean grabbed the bottles of holy water off the table and nodded in the direction of the stairs to the cellar. "That thing in there is gonna to try to fuck with us however it can, John. I need you on your 'A' game."

"I said I'm ready."

Dean cleared his throat. "Okay. Let's get this done before Sammy wakes up, yeah?"

John followed Dean down the stairs. He stared at the thick lines of red spray paint on the old wood floor, the chair and the man tied to it.

Sherlock.

His head lolled back in half-consciousness, blue eyes blinking open. A low, deep rumble of a laugh split his face open, and his eyes fluttered closed. "Dean Winchester," he said, still laughing. "I have to confess, we didn't think you'd be nearly so much trouble."

"Yeah, well, you body-jumped into the wrong meat suit, friend," Dean snapped, dropping the toolbox onto the table. "Sherlock's a special guy. I mean, seriously. No one can fake being that much of an annoying dick all the time."

Behind Dean, John's mouth twitched into a grin.

The demon glared at Dean through Sherlock's pale eyes. "Well, I'm sure you're very proud of yourselves."

"Don't get me wrong," Dean said with a shrug. "You might have actually been able to play me and Sam. But John?" He clicked his tongue in his cheek. "You really thought you could manage to fool John Watson? Oh! Which reminds me. Johnny, come on over here and say hello to the ugly bastard."

The thing inside Sherlock smiled with too many teeth. It sucked in a hiss of air through his clenched jaw, chuckling. "Oh, Doctor Watson needs no introduction," the demon said as Dean turned away, filling a silver goblet with holy water. "We've been keeping tags on all of you since you idiots touched down here. The detective, the doctor, and then there's the Timelord." The demon chuckled, looking from John to Dean. "You and your brother really stepped in it this time, Winchest—"

The holy water sizzled as it made contact with the Sherlock's skin. A patch of red bloomed up from his flawless cheek as steam went wafting up in long, curls. The demon hissed, breathing fast and low as Dean grabbed a chair from the table, spun it so he was sitting backwards in it. He examined the water in the cup, then looked at the demon. "Look what you made me do. Spilled my drink."

"Whatever you think you're going to do to me, it's not going to be enough," the demon snapped.

Dean smirked. "That's cute, he doesn't think we can make him talk. Ain't that cute, John?"

"Adorable," John mumbled, standing against the wall, arms folded hard across his chest.

Dean nodded, smiling. "But, you see, you took a friend of ours. And we don't take kindly to people taking our friends. Do we, John?"

"No."

"So, what we can do, it we can do this the easy way, or the hard way." Dean smirked. "So here's my proposition. You tell us who you're working for, where they're shacked up, and we let you walk."

The demon chuckled, licking his lips. "Or what?"

Dean turned his head to the side, humor gone. "You know what."

"Oh, you're back to using _tools_," the demon chuckled. "That's so sad it almost makes laugh. What, baby brother can't get it up for a demon since Lucifer bailed?"

Another hiss of holy water on skin and the demon swore.

Dean slammed the now-empty cup on the table, reached for the bottle of water. "You seeing this, John?" Dean muttered, standing to fill the cup. "Invite him into our house, share our water and fancy china, and he's going after my brother's balls. Unbelievable."

"_You think I'm frightened of you, Winchester?!" _the demon shouted, eyes snapping from blue to solid black.

Dean turned, glass filled again. He looked around the empty room, then pointed at himself. "Oh, you think I want you to be afraid of… me?" He smiled. "That's cute, asshole, I'm almost flattered. But, no." He nodded in the direction over his shoulder where John hadn't moved a muscle since he'd entered the cellar. "No, I'm not the one you should be worried about. But this guy? John Watson? Now, he's someone you should be worried about."

The demon chuckled. "The _broken_ army doctor?" he sneered, eyes still black. "No… no, I really don't think he's the one I should worry about." He smirked, and in a tone that was almost too much like Sherlock's, asked, "isn't that right, John?"

Dean didn't react to the sound of John shifting on the wall, just held the demon's gaze. "I don't know about you, but I remember Dad pretty well. Military meant he really knew how to fuck some of you bastards up. But doctors?" He blew out a breath. "That's a whole 'nother level of fucked up. You really want to cause yourself a world of pain, by all means, keep talking."

"Oh, but there's so much the good doctor hasn't told you," the demon sneered. "I'm surprised he can even look at a man tied to the chair after what happened in Afghanistan."

John's jaw worked in silence.

"Tell me, Doctor Watson," the demon smirked. "Did you ever find out what happened to Colonel Moran, or did you even spare a glance over your shoulder—?"

"Stop it," John snapped, no longer leaning against the wall. No longer casual in any sense of the word. His hands had gone to fists, and his eyes were wide.

"Why, John?" the demon asked. "What are you going to do to stop me? Same thing they did to stop you? To get you to talk? You broke before the Colonel. You honestly think I'll break before you did, _Captain_ Wats—?"

Dean dumped the entire goblet of water on the demon's head. "How about you take ten to cool off?" Dean snapped. "We'll be back." He slammed the cup down on the table, turning and grabbing a handful of John's sleeve, half-dragging the startled man back up the stairs.

The screams below turned to laughter. "You're a coward, John Watson! A ruddy coward, and a liar! Bring your worst, you fucking nancy! You goddamn hairless ape! You—"

Dean slammed the door shut, muffling the shouting going on below. He spent a moment catching his breath, turned to see John shuffling across the room. He ran both hands over his face, sinking into a chair as Dean walked toward him. "What the hell was that, John?" he asked.

John looked up from between his fingers, said nothing.

Dean gestured between them. "Good cop, bad cop. That was the game plan, right?"

John nodded.

"So where the fuck were you?" Dean snapped.

John said nothing.

"Look, are you in or not?" Dean asked. "I don't know if you know this, but after twelve hours of possession, the exorcisms get harder. Twenty-four hours, you've got a sixty-three percent kill-rate on your exorcisms. We don't have time to fuck around—!"

"I'm not fucking around, I—" John cut himself off, ran a hand over his mouth. He held up both hands, looked at Dean. "That stuff. What he was just talking about, Afghanistan, Sebastian, how did he—?"

"They're _demons_," Dean murmured. "If it makes you tick, they're going to know about it. And they're going to talk about it."

John shut his eyes. "_Jeeeesus_," he mumbled.

Dean cleared his throat. "This, um… this going to be an issue?"

John shook his head. "N… no, no it…" He shook his head a second time, almost to assure himself. "No, it won't be an issue, just—"

"You wanna talk about it?"

"Not particularly."

Dean sighed. "John, look… I'm not… this touchy-feely-girly shit is Sam's division, okay? You tell me to drop it, I'm gonna drop it. But if this is going to be a thing? Then you need to tell me about it."

John held Dean's gaze as long as he could manage before dropping his eyes back to the floor. "I was injured in Afghanistan."

"Yeah, you told us," Dean said.

"It wasn't the gunshot that got me discharge," John murmured.

"What was?"

John looked up. For a while, his mouth was open in silence, moving, but not able to find the right words. Finally, he squeezed his eyes shut and began rubbing at his brow with a trembling left hand. "I was, ah… captured. A few of us were, _officers_, I mean. There was myself and another captain, and the leader for the regiment, a Colonel Sebastian Moran." His throat worked. "The, um… the privates were all killed, but we were…" He grabbed his shaking hand with his steady one, folded them together. "Split up, we were taken to facilities. I was taken with Sebastian, and…" His lips pressed into a thin line and he swallowed. "They wanted information. Information we both had, and… well…"

John didn't say anything for a long while. Finally, it was Dean who broke the silence. "I'm sorry," he murmured.

John gave him a glance before training his eyes back to his hands, gone to fists in his lap. "Me too." He took in a breath. "We, um… were there about a month before an American unit did a raid. We thought we were in the clear when th…" He cleared his throat. "Sebastian didn't make it out. And to answer the question, no…" He took in a shallow breath, dragged his eyes to Dean's and murmured, "I didn't look back."

"It's war, John," Dean murmured. "Casualties happen. It's not your f—"

"So help me if you finish that sentence, Dean Winchester," he snapped. "I will punch you in your stupid arse face."

Dean gave a little nod. "Fair enough." He swallowed. "Anything else I need to know?"

John shook his head. "No."

"Ready to go back?"

"Yeah… yeah, just… gimme a second."

"Okay." Dean rose from his seat and started toward the cellar door. He stopped, turning back toward John. "Hey, Johnny-boy."

John looked up.

"I know you don't want to hear what I was gonna say, so I'm just gonna say this; there's not a damn thing that demon's going to tell me about you that's going to make me think you're not one of the best men I've ever worked with. Hell, one of the best I've ever known."

John shut his eyes tight for a moment, opened them and looked hard at Dean. "You sure about that?"

Dean shrugged. "I know what it's like to make the hard call. I know what it's like to make a choice that's not right and not wrong and is just fucking stupid." His throat worked and his eyes went glassy. "I know what it's like to watch people die under my watch because I made the wrong call. And torture?" He gave a bitter chuckle. "I know about torture. I'm no saint, but I'm sure as hell not a demon. And at the end of the day, when the tally gets counted up, I don't think you are either." He shrugged. "I respect the fuck out of you, John. Nothing any black-eyed asshole says is gonna change that."

John's mouth twitched. "Thank you, Dean," he whispered.

Dean nodded. "Come down when you're ready. I'll get him warmed up."

John watched the door clatter shut behind the elder Winchester before letting out the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. He clenched his left hand to a fist, holding it out in front of him as he extended his fingers. He hands were shaking_. Bloody hell_, his hands were shaking.

He gripped it to a fist, jaw gone tight. His whole body ached, from the puckered skin on his shoulder to the deep tissue of his thighs. He held up his hand again. "Come on," he hissed to himself. "Snap out of it. Snap out of it, John, _come on_."

The trembling in his hand lessened, but did not subside. He watched it for another minute before shaking his head. "Good enough," he muttered, pushing himself to his feet.

He pulled open the door to the cellar. He took a deep breath, and started down the stairs.

It wasn't Sherlock. John knew that. The way it phrased it's sentences and even spoke John's name made it clear that it wasn't Sherlock. That didn't make it any easier.

The body twisting in the chair as they drowned it with holy water was Sherlock's. The screams that bounced off the walls, collided with John's ears and made the back of his head pulse were Sherlock's. And the eyes. Those were Sherlock's, too.

Just enough of Sherlock to make this impossible.

Dean shook it by two handfuls of Sherlock's dress shirt. "Give us the location!" he bellowed.

The demon chuckled, low and deep. And distinctly Sherlock. He shook his head and the sounds turned to laughter, full and loud, verging on hysteric. "You don't get it, do you?" he laughed.

"Get what?" Dean snapped.

It kept laughing, shaking his head. "Oh, Dean… always were the thick one. Shallow end of the gene pool when it came to brains—"

"I'm this close to beating your brains in with a crucifix if you don't get to the point," Dean snapped.

"So do it," the demon said, baring its teeth and laughing. "Oh, Winchester… you and Dr. Watson talk big, but come the end of the day, there's not a damn thing you can do to make me talk, and you know why?" It smiled. "_Sentiment_."

It said the word the same way some people might have said 'sex,' all the while smiling and shaking its head. "You talk big, you threaten, but you won't do anything to compromise this vessel. Specifically, Dr. Watson won't. He _likes_ this vessel. Don't you, John? And you know something? I think it likes you back." It chuckled. "You see this… mind palace, this… mental storage dump… he's got a whole wing just for John here. How he likes his tea, how he likes his eggs, favorite foods, pet peeves, cleaning habits, hygiene habits, tells, the whole nine-yards—you, my dear friend, are Sherlock Holmes's own personal petting zoo. His extensive cross thesis, his favorite project." It smiled. "And let me tell you… his notes are quite thorough."

It kept smiling. "He's still in here, you know? Clawing at the walls of his own mind. _Screaming_. See, you're not supposed to know any of this," it said shrugging. "You're not supposed to know he _knows_. That's part of the project." It laughed. "I don't know if it's affectionately adorable or just plain serial-killer creepy, and let me remind you, I temp in the lower circles."

"Doesn't matter," John said, voice holding steady, but only just. "We'll do what needs to be done."

"No you won't," it smirked. "No, and you know why? Because, Dr. Watson, I think you _enjoy_ being his pet project." It turned its head to the side. "Oh, is that a flush on your cheeks?"

"This is bigger than me and Sherlock," John snapped. "We'll do what we have to do to get that information."

Something in the demon's eyes flickered. "No you won't."

John's jaw worked and he lifted his chin. "Try me."

The demon's eyes flickered over John's features, trying to read him. Trying to guess if the doctor was bluffing or if he was actually …

It's mouth twitched into a wicked grin. "Fine. Let's see how well you do when you have to tell that to him." The demon smirked. "Tatty-bye." And with that, it closed its eyes and its head lolled down to his chest.

Dean jumped to his feet. "No, no no no, _no, shit!"_

"What's happening?" John asked. "What's it doing?"

"It's hibernating," Dean muttered. "It's going to sleep."

"What does that mean?"

"Just like it sounds," Dean said, picking up Sherlock's head and examining his eyes. "It just goes to the back of the human subconscious and _waits_."

"Waits?" John asked, voice rising in panic. "We don't have time to wait, we need that information before we can pull this thing out of Sherlock! You said twelve hours! It's been seven! If it's going to just hide in there, how are we—?"

"Calm down, Johnny-boy," Dean muttered. "It can't sleep like that forever. Only an hour or two at a time."

"We don't have an hour or two to wait!" John snapped. "And while it's in there, Sherlock is still—"

"That's the other thing," Dean murmured, still holding onto Sherlock's head as it began to move of its own accord. The man tied to the chair groaned, lifted his head and blinked his eyes several times. "Winchester?"

John's eyes went wide. "Is… that…?"

"Welcome back, Sherly," Dean said, crouching down and pulling up one eyelid to examine his eyes. "How you feeling?"

Sherlock began to cough. The coughing turned violent and he spent a few moments catching his breath. "There is fluid in my lungs."

"Yeah," Dean murmured. "Sorry about that. Makeshift waterboarding with holy water."

Sherlock coughed again, eyes finally starting to focus. "Where am I?"

"Basement of the Green Pig," Dean said, throat working.

Sherlock's looked around the small room, eyes resting again on Dean. "Where's Sam?"

"He's upstairs," Dean said. "John patched him up."

"And the Doctor?" Sherlock asked.

Dean looked at John. John didn't return the glance. Dean cleared his throat and gave a sharp nod. "We're working on that."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. There was the distance in his eyes, the distance of someone whose thoughts are far away and happening too fast to speak them aloud. Something clicked and his vision cleared, eyes back to Dean's. "Does it know where the Doctor is? This thing inside me?"

"We're working on that," Dean said, nodding at John.

Sherlock shook his head. "Not working hard enough," Sherlock said, coughing again.

Dean looked at John, who was already shaking his head. "Sherlock, no," John mumbled. "We're not having this discussion."

"No, we shouldn't be having this discussion," Sherlock snapped. He shook his head, eyes never leaving John's. "You're better than this, John—"

"Maybe you don't understand," John snapped. "We do this wrong, you could end up dead, Sherlock. Dead. And that thing would still be inside of you, and you know what? It's not worth it. It's not _bloody_ worth it, and I _won't_ do it—"

"—Dean," Sherlock said, looking up at the Winchester. "If he won't do it, it falls on you."

Dean shook his head. "Sherlock, I—"

"The Doctor's gone, these creatures have the Spear of Destiny, it might as well be the end of the world, and you're hesitating?!" Sherlock shouted. "Are you both daft?! Don't you see? If you don't do this, we'll all end up dead—"

"You calm the fuck down!" Dean snapped back at him. "You don't get to hop onboard the martyr train and act all holier-than-thou, okay? We'll get the info. And we don't need to kill you to do it!"

"Which is exactly what the demon is counting on!" Sherlock shouted. "Don't you understand that?!"

"Alright, enough!" John roared over the both of them. "Sherlock—"

"John, so help me," Sherlock snapped at him, "if you and Dean pull this demon from me without any information, if the Doctor dies because you were unwilling to make the hard call, I shall never forgive you."

"Sherlock—"

"_Never_, John," Sherlock snapped. "You were in Afghanistan. You served there, you have told me the things you did over there."

John's throat worked. "I was a doctor."

"You had bad days," Sherlock said, mouth only just twitching. "You didn't only mend people, John. You _broke_ them."

John shook his head. "Not anymore, Sherlock. I—"

"If anyone could," Sherlock said, voice heavy, "it would be you." He swallowed. "Hesitation doesn't become you, John. Stop hesitating and do what must be done."

John swallowed, shaking his head. "And you? What if you don't come back? What do I do then?"

Sherlock smiled, tired and distant and resigning. "We're not alone any longer, John. You'll be fine."

"No," John said, shaking his head.

"Dean," Sherlock said. "If he cannot, then you must. Do I have your word?"

Dean nodded, his expression grim and resolute. "Yeah—"

"No," John murmured. "No, if anyone's going to do this, I am." He shook his head, staring at Sherlock. "Bloody, stupid idiot. If you're going to play the martyr, you really think I'm not going to be there the whole way?"

Sherlock smiled. "You'll certainly have something to blog about."

"Shut it," John muttered, though he was smirking as well.

Sherlock's throat worked. "Well… if I don't have another opportunity to say it, I—" Sherlock's back suddenly arched, his head thrown back as a violent scream tore out his throat. His body shuddered, and his eyes—solid black again—turned on Dean and John. It smiled, toothy and maniacal, and asked, "what did I miss? Nothing important, I hope." Its gaze turned on John. "Kind of a self-righteous bitch, isn't he? All me, me, me." It chuckled. "Ready to be the martyr. Of course, you're not ready to let him go, are you Dr. Watson?"

John's throat worked. His expression was hard, eyes narrowed but beyond that, blank. Void of any trace of emotion. "I'll do what I have to. I owe him that much."

It stared at John a long moment, the demon wearing Sherlock's skin. It didn't speak, just sat there staring. Something along the lines of confusion trickled over the features and it asked, very quietly, "what?"

John walked across the room to the small table that Dean had set up. Dean was quick to follow, his voice low. "You okay, John?"

"We need a better plan," John said, picking up a knife.

"What, you're going to just cut pieces off him until he talks?" Dean snapped under his breath. "We're not even going to try to save, Sherlock, is that what we're doing?!"

"Give me a little more credit than that, Dean," John mumbled, setting down the knife and picking up another.

Dean regarded him with narrow eyes. "Is this what they had you doing over in Afghanistan?" he asked.

John didn't look at him.

Dean sighed. "Okay, fine, don't talk about it, just…" He shrugged. "What do you need me to do?"

John picked up the block of Palo Santo, examined the wood a moment. "I think I've an idea."

The Doctor blinked his eyes open, but found he couldn't focus on a single thing in the room. There were fuzzy outlines, long shadows in a dark room. He was in a warehouse, that much he could tell, but it did little to stop the pounding in his head. He squeezed his eyes shut and gave his head a shake, only to find that made him feel dizzier.

"You're awake."

The Doctor blinked his eyes open, squinted at the figure walking toward him. It was the same woman they'd encountered in the museum, though the months seemed to have taken their toll on her. "Bela Talbot, isn't it?" he asked.

She gave him a humorless smile. "So it is," she said as she made her way across the warehouse floor. "And you're a Time Lord." She raised her eyebrows and added, "the _only_ Time Lord. _If_ lore's to be believed."

The Doctor watched the woman walking toward him and he made as though to stand, as though he could jump up and run from the room at that very moment. However, he managed to do little more than scoot the chair forward. He looked down at the chains crossing his chest, pulled tight around his body and he smirked. "Oh, chains. Bound me up with chains, haven't had that happen for a while—well, I say a while. Bit overkill, innet?"

She shrugged. "My people don't believe in overkill."

The Doctor's eyes narrowed. "Say again?"

"I said, my people don't b—"

"No, no, no, see," he said nodding at her. "_That_ I don't believe."

Bela scoffed. "What? That we like to take _precautions?"_

The Doctor gave her a sad smile. "That they're _your_ people." Before she could respond, he continued, looking around the storage room. "Strange place for a hideout. Well, strange for someone of your boss's tastes, I suppose. Or maybe not so strange, given the chains and a strong belief in paranoia—middle of nowhere makes more sense, suppose, where am I, exactly?"

Bela blinked a few times and gave a soft chuckle, folded her arms in front of her. "Well, If I told you, I'd have to kill you."

The Doctor turned his head to one side and gave her a knowing smile. "Ah, see… But you're going to kill me anyway. Aren't you? Maybe not you, but…" He sighed. "That would be the plan, wouldn't it?"

"I'm just following orders," Bela said, never blinking.

The Doctor's throat worked as he smiled. "If I'd a ha'penny for every time I heard that."

"Don't try to make yourself the victim here," Bela snapped. "You think I haven't read about you? Who you are?" She sneered. "We've got your records. You didn't honestly think in all of time and space no one was watching, did you?"

The Doctor's expression went blank, hollow eyes staring at her.

Bela could see the comment had struck the intended chord. "Ah, see… I think, deep down… you always knew you'd have to answer to someone someday."

"And you think your superiors are those someone's?"

"I think I'm paid to do a job," she snapped.

The Doctor raised an eyebrow. "Paid or _required—?"_

"Does it matter?" she said, lip curling. "I make a damn fine job of it. And _their_ business? My _superiors_, your… _friends?_" She shrugged. "It's no business of mine."

The Doctor swallowed. "Look at that… just look at you…" He smiled, tired and sad and aching. "And I thought Dean Winchester was the saddest human I'd ever met—"

"Don't you _dare_ compare me to him," Bela snapped.

"You can't have always been like this," the Doctor murmured as though she hadn't spoken. "You can't have always been so… _sad_."

Bela's throat worked hard. "I don't think it's any of your business."

The Doctor smiled. "I know. But if I can help—"

"I don't want your help," she snapped. "Or your _sympathy_. I've made it through life just fine on my own, thank you—"

"Maybe that's the problem," the Doctor said. "D'ythink?"

Bela's jaw set. "I think you shouldn't talk about things you don't know and couldn't possibly begin to understand."

"I'd like to understand, Miss Talbot," the Doctor said. "I really would."

Bela stared at him a long while, her eyes flicking over him before finally stopping on his face. "Why? You think if you do that I'll just… unfasten your chains, walk you out of this place and back to your blue box?"

"No," the Doctor said with a soft chuckle. "No, I think you're too smart for that, Miss Talbot. Self-preservation is quite a different tune than slavery."

"I'm no one's _slave_," Bela snapped.

"No," the Doctor said. "No, perhaps not, but… they're not giving you any other choices, are they?" He shrugged. "And being that you have no other choice, well… walking me out of here isn't in the cards, is it?"

Bela sniffed. "No one ever has a choice. Not really."

"Oh, Miss Talbot," the Doctor murmured, shaking his head. "Everyone has a choice. _Always_. Doesn't mean that either of those choices are the _right_ one, but everyone has a choice."

Faster than he could see, faster than he could predict, Bela's hand shot out, striking him hard in the space between his neck and his left shoulder. He cried out, doubling-over as much as he could bound up by the chains. His vision was swarmed with gray stars and the room was spinning again, hot and cold all at once.

Bela's jaw worked, eyes turned to solid black as she flexed her hand. "I think that's enough small talk." She turned and walked out of the room, ordering one of the other demons to keep watch over the Doctor. "Whatever you do, _don't_ talk to him," she snapped.

Even as she walked away, she couldn't shake the sting out of her fingers.

"Think this will work?"

John set the final chip of wood on the table. For the better part of an hour, he'd been carving off thin sheets of the Palo Santo, trimming them into fine points. "Worked on me," John muttered.

Dean tested the point on his thumb, glanced at John. "What are you going to do?"

John didn't look up, set another finished sliver on the table, the size and shape of an almond. "Just worry about what I told you to do."

"I already did it," Dean snapped. "Now are you going to let me in on this, or not?"

John rounded on him, eyes dark and distant. "Do you trust me, Dean?"

Dean's frowned. "The hell kind of question is that—?"

"Do you trust me?" John snapped.

Dean held John's gaze as long as he could stand before shrugging. "You know I do."

John clapped a hand on Dean's shoulder. "Then trust me to do this." His throat worked and he murmured, "alone."

Dean slapped the hand off his shoulder. "The hell kind of question is that—?"

"Dean—"

"No," he said, shaking his head. "Not going to happen."

John's throat worked. "Dean, I'm not proud of what I'm about to do. I'm asking you, as a friend, to respect that." He gave a weak shrug. "Tell me you understand."

Dean's eyes narrowed on John. He held the glare as long as he could manage before swallowing. "I understand, I just think it's stupid—"

"_Dean_," John said. "Now, I know there are… some things from your past… you will never tell anyone. Least of all me, and…" He shook his head, shrugged his shoulders and finished, "the same goes for me. There are somethings… no one knows. Not even Sherlock." He gestured toward the basement. "Now, he's about to find some of those things out. That is… difficult enough for me. Please, just…" He rubbed his mouth with the back of his hand. "_Please_."

Dean's throat worked. For a long moment, nothing was said. For a long moment, neither so much as blinked. Dean gave a nod in resignation, eyes on the floor. "Fine. Fine, just…" His throat worked. "Promise me you won't do anything I wouldn't."

John smirked. "Short list, I imagine."

Dean chuckled. "You'd be right."

John picked up the handful of woodchips from the table, held them in his fist a moment before looking back at Dean. "Thank you…"

Dean didn't say a word.

Nor did John. He just turned toward the doorway and disappeared into the basement, closing the door shut behind him. He walked down the thin staircase, down to the man in the chair illuminated by a single lightbulb hanging from the ceiling. It smiled at him, too many teeth and eyes gone solid black. "John Watson," it chuckled. "And here I thought you weren't going to come and visit me anymore." It tugged at the hand taped flat on the arm of the chair, fingers extended. "Dean came down for a bit a foreplay, but I have to admit, it's a little lost on me. Though he does have lovely hands, our boy Sherlock." It chuckled. "When I get out of here, I'm going to use them to tear out your throat, but not before you watch me tear out his."

John picked up one of the woodchips in one hand, a household hammer in the other. "Not going to happen."

"Oh, but you're not going to get him out soon enough," the demon chuckled. "His screams are getting quieter. In fact I should thank you. Since you talked to him, he's been downright docile."

John held up the woodchip in front of the demon's face. "You're going to tell me who has the Doctor, and where I can find him."

The demon smiled. "I'm going to do no such thing."

John smirked. "I think you'll find you are. But…" He shrugged. "Seeing as you're a demon and all, and I can't really trust you to tell me the truth, well… I need to remind you just how serious I am. So, before I start asking any questions, allow me to demonstrate what you can expect for every answer you don't give me." John took the woodchip, pressed the pointed end between the underside of Sherlock's fingernail and the soft skin beneath. He held the hammer just behind the chip. "Three. Two. One."

A single tap sent the entire chip of Palo Santo deep under the first fingernail.

The screaming had been going on for what felt like hours. Dean checked his watch. It had only been twenty minutes.

He couldn't stand it.

He wandered upstairs, sat backwards on a chair and watched his brother sleep. The bandages were turning a darker color, which usually meant the bleeding was stopping. John could do one helluva patch up job, that was for sure.

Another scream tore up through the floorboards sending a cold shiver through Dean's whole body. It had been a long time since he'd heard a scream like that. A scream that deep and that soul-rending. Not since hell. Not since…

His jaw went tight and his shut his eyes. He wasn't going to think about that. Now? Now he needed to think about what they'd do once they found out where the Doctor was; how in the hell they were going to get him out in one piece.

And then, of course, there was the matter of the spear.

Dean rubbed his temples with both hands, not noticing that the screaming had stopped. Not hearing John Watson's footsteps on the staircase or seeing him slump down onto the sofa opposite him. He cleared his throat and Dean looked up.

John looked like he'd aged ten years in those thirty minutes. His eyes were sunken, dark circles rimming the bottoms, and his face was ashen. Almost gray. His shirt and forearms were splattered with blood, some fresh, some dried, and his hands were shaking. His throat worked a moment, and when his spoke, his voice cracked. He swallowed and tried again. "Fife, he's… He's in Scotland. Fife."

Dean ran both hands over his face. "On the other fucking side of this godforsaken island, fucking great." He sighed. "What else do we know? Do we have a name for whoever's leading this operation for the Spear?"

John cleared his throat, folded his hands together in front of him. "Crowley."

Dean stared at John. "Crowley?" he repeated.

John nodded.

Dean began to shake his head. "N… no," he chuckled. "No, no, see… that's not possible. It's lying to you."

John's gaze went hard. "It wasn't lying."

"How do you know?"

John flexed his hands, looked down at the blood on his arms. "Oh… I know."

"Eve said it."

Dean glanced over at Sam, eyes barely open and not having moved from where he lay on the bed. "What?"

"Eve," Sam repeated. "She said Crowley was still alive."

"Yeah, and we know she's a spiteful bitch and chock full of shit," Dean snapped. "Crowley is dead. We watched Cas torch the bones. We saw Crowley go up in smoke."

Sam shrugged. "Maybe Cas made a mistake—"

Dean slammed a hand on the arm of the chair, making both Sam and John jump. "_**No, Goddamit, Cas—!" **_He took a deep breath, swallowing. "That's a kindergarten mistake, Sam. Cas wouldn't do that. He's better than that." His eyes found his brother's, and softly he asked, "right? Cas is better than that, isn't he?"

"Well if it wasn't a mistake, what was it?" John asked quietly.

Dean stared at the floor. He could feel Sam and John's gazes burning holes into him. He shook his head, muttered, "I don't know."

"Look," John said as he stood from the couch. "Whatever it is, it doesn't matter right now. We've a lead." He nodded at Dean. "And we need you to perform an exorcism."

"Yeah," Dean mumbled. "Yeah, okay. I'll be right down."

John disappeared down the stairs and out of sight. Dean ran both hands over his face, letting out a long sigh.

"Dean?" He looked at his brother, staring at him with those stupid puppy eyes. "You okay?"

Dean stood, shaking his head. "No. No, Sammy, I'm not." He sighed. "Lately I wish we hadn't even gone to that damn factory, bumped into the Doc."

"You don't mean that."

Dean sighed. "No. No, I don't…" He shrugged, standing and starting toward the staircase. "But it would make things a hell of a lot easier."

John was waiting in the basement, standing at the table with a pair of pliers in a bowl of red water. The woodchips were on the table, dark red. Nearly black. He didn't look up as Dean came down the stairs, stopped dead in his tracks at the sight of the consulting detective still taped to the chair.

Sherlock—or at least Sherlock's body—looked like hell. His hands were covered in blood and a massive bruise was spreading over the left side of his face. Blood was caked on his upper lip from a bloody nose, and his lower lip was split, cracked open wide to show the meat under the skin. The whole basement smelled of blood and adrenaline and Dean had to lift his arm over his mouth to take it all in.

John still wouldn't look at him.

Dean set a sheet of paper on the table and for the first time, John looked up from the tools. He seemed startled; _distracted_. Like he hadn't been ignoring Dean. He just hadn't heard him come in. He picked up the paper with his pink-stained hands and opened it. "What's this, then?"

"You speak Latin?"

"A little, yeah, took a course in college. Why?"

"It's the exorcism," Dean said, nodding at the paper. "Thought you might want the honors."

John dragged his gaze up to Dean, the long sleepless hours finally showing on his face. "Haven't I done enough?"

"Sherlock won't feel this part," Dean said slowly. "Well… the first part, he might. It separates the demon from the host body, but this?" Dean gestured to the bulk of the words. "This is the _Rituale Romanum_, the part that sends the demon back to hell."

John stared at the page. "Don't suppose there's an exorcism to kill a demon?"

Dean held his gaze a long while. His throat worked and he murmured, "no. No, there isn't."

John nodded. He took the page from Dean and took a shaky breath. He stared at the page in silence, reading and rereading the text. Then rereading again. When he finally spoke, it wasn't the incantation, but a soft, hesitant question. "Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"How much will Sherlock remember?" he asked.

Dean shook his head. "I don't know."

John gave a bitter laugh. "Alright, okay." He rubbed his nose, considering the page a moment before asking, "the excorcism… is it painful for the demon?"

Dean's smile went dark. Bitter and cold and ruthless. "Yeah. Very painful."

John's expression remained a blank. "Good." He stepped up to the edge of the devil's trap, paper in his all-too steady hands.

The demon looked up, smiled with red teeth and spat out a mouthful of blood. "I'll remember this, John Watson."

John didn't look at the demon, just began reading. "_Regna terrae, cantate Deo, psallite Domino qui fertis ascendit_—"

Sherlock's body twisted on the chair, head tossed back as the ritual began to take hold. "You hear me! Whatever they've got planned for me in the pit—"

"—_super caelum caeli ad Orientem_—"

"—I'm going to get out of there and comeback and do to you, Watson! TenTwenty-fold! You fucking hear me—?!"

"—_Ecce dabit voci suae, vocem virtutis_—"

"—_you fuck! You stupid cunt, I'll kill you! I'll kill every fucking one of you, I'll take your Sherlock Holmes and eat his liver, I'll make you watch, I'll fucking_—"

"—_tribuite virtutem deo_."

The demon's words stopped short, cut off by a scream that was not—could not have been—Sherlock. It was dark. Animal. More than animal. Sub-human, sub-_life_. When the thing in Sherlock's body looked up, there was no more anger. No frantic rage. There was only one emotion.

Fear.

The demon was breathing hard, eyes solid black. "Please—"

Dean's jaw worked. "Send this fucker home, Johnny Boy."

John's mouth twitched and he smiled at the demon. "I'm not even going to pretend I'm not going to enjoy this part. _Exorcizamus te_—"

"_Omnis immundus spiritus,_" Dean murmured, speaking the exorcism by heart, both their voices joining over the screams of the demon.

It flailed, threaten to break loose from the chair, tear out of the room in a blind panic were it not held down by the devil's trap. It's eyes flashed from the cool blue of Sherlock's back to the solid black. Smoke began pouring from Sherlock's nostrils and mouth like blood, the screaming never stopping.

Nor did Dean and John. They continued the chant. There was a single moment when John's Latin faltered. Dean put a hand on his shoulder, didn't say a word. Didn't break the chant for a moment. John continued the chant. His Latin didn't fail him again.

"…_securi tibi facias libertate servire te rogamus, audi nos_."

On the final word of the chant, Sherlock's body arched, hard enough to break the chair, head thrown back as smoke poured from his mouth. It couldn't have been more than a few seconds, but it felt like minutes that Sherlock tossed about, screaming as the smoke vacated his body, twisted and disappeared until it vanished into nothing and all that remained was a man sitting on the chair. Sitting very still.

Too still.

John was the first to move, grabbing Sherlock's head and pulling it off his chest. "Sherlock?" he gasped. "Sherlock, come on! He's not bre—_Dean! He's not breathing—!"_

Dean had already grabbed a knife from the table, crossed to the chair and cut the tape and rope they'd used to tie the demon down. Together, they both picked up the man and set him on the floor. John felt for a pulse, lowered his head to Sherlock's mouth and listened. "He needs CPR," he said.

Dean gaped. "What like mouth-to-mouth—?"

"_Yes, Dean! Like mouth-to-mouth! He needs bloody CPR! Now! Now are you going to help me or—_"

Dean was nodding frantically. "Yeah, yeah, how do I—"

"Hands here," John said, putting his hands on Sherlock's chest. "Lock your arms, you're going to give thirty compressions, and you're going to push harder than you think. Half-way into his chest, just…" John began the first set of compressions, a sick crunch as a rib gave way. John continued the compressions, not noticing as Dean looked a little ill. He finished the set and, tilting Sherlock's head back, gave him two breaths. The man's chest swelled a little and John looked at Dean. "Dean!"

Dean nodded frantically. "Y-yeah. Yeah, I…" His throat worked and he put his hands were John's had been, began pushing into the man's chest.

"Harder," John instructed levelly.

"But what if I—"

"_Dean!"_

And without another word, Dean began to make harder compressions. He could feel something snap, complicate the first sound that happened when John began compressions. "I think I broke a rib," he murmured as he counted twenty-five.

"Means you're doing it right," John muttered, and gave another two breaths. Dean began compressions again as John stared at Sherlock's face. "Come on you stupid git. You selfish bastard, don't you dare leave me here, you ruddy—"

"—thirty," Dean announced, and John gave Sherlock two more breaths. Dean went to begin compressions again when Sherlock's whole body lurched. He took in a sharp breath of air and began coughing violently. His eyes were wide and filled with panic as they scanned the ceiling, finally resting on the two men at his side. He blinked at them, coughing more as he murmured, "w'happen?"

Dean gave a groan, falling back to the floor and draping an arm over his face. "Holy shit," he muttered.

John let out a grateful sigh, shaking his head. "_Jesus_, Sherlock," he mumbled.

Sherlock's breathing was shallow, but steady. His eyes fluttered shut and he spent a while in silence as John sat down beside him, checked his pulse. Sherlock's eyes opened. "John?"

John, too shaken to speak, just gave a shrug and a bit of a questioning noise.

"Did you get what we needed?"

John looked at Sherlock, held his gaze until he could manage a nod. "Yes. Yes, I did."

Sherlock's eyes shut and his head fell back to the floor as he gave an affirmative grunt. The grunt turned to a single chuckle. "John?"

"Mm?"

"This… doesn't go on the blog."

John let out a high-pitched distressed-sounding laugh as he lay back, propping himself up on his forearms. "God no, none of this goes on the blog. Ever."

Dean, still lying on the floor began to laugh. "Dude, can you imagine if you blogged about any of this? Demons, stone angels, Spear of Destiny? People'd think you were certifiable."

"They'd think I was bonkers," John giggled.

Sherlock smirked. "They'd blame the war trauma and PTSD," he laughed.

"And you'd never get another case again," John muttered to Sherlock.

Sherlock sighed. "I'd be terribly bored."

"I dunno," Dean muttered. "Y'ever think we're all going to be adventured-out after all this is over?"

All three men lying on the floor, exchanged a brief glance for a moment. Then, too tired to do anything else, they burst into a fit of hysterical laughter.

"What's the status?"

Jim Moriarty stared down over the factory as he pressed a piece of gum against his tongue. He pushed it against his upper molars, chewing and breaking the candy shell as the workers continued to discusss the object they had laid out in front of them. The three pieces had been pressed together, but as of yet, there was no discernible way to actually reassemble the item. Jim sighed into his cellphone, leaning on the banister. "It's coming along. Taking a bit longer than we'd like."

"I thought you had your best men on it?"

"I did," Jim muttered. "And two of the five are already down for the count."

Crowley rubbed hard at his eyes with his thumb and index finger, only just keeping himself from turning the phone in his hand into a fine, powdered mist. "Just… alright, fine, how much longer?"

Jim watched as three men in protective suits and face wear lifted an iron from the forge below. One of the men guided it to the first crack in the metal, pressed it to the seam. At the moment the iron made contact with the metal shards there was a flash bright enough to illuminate the entire room. When it faded, one of the men was lying on the ground, holding a stump where his hand had once been. And, of course, there was the blood and other matter strewn across the foor. The remaining workers began running about, grabbing towels and screaming for help. Jim rolled his eyes and gave a bit of a sigh. "Bit longer," he muttered.

"I don't _have a bit longer_," Crowley said, barely masking his irritation.

"Noted," Jim responded, and pressing a button, ended the call. "Alright, boys," he called down to the workers, clapping his hands together. "Pick up the pace." The men went to help the injured one on the floor. "Oi! No! Leave 'im, we've got work to do!" He snapped his fingers. "Chop chop, time and tide waiting and all those silly little idioms." He rolled his eyes and pulling his phone back out began going through his emails. "Normal people," he muttered and walked out of the room.

"You've done rather nicely."

Aziraphale looked up at the voice, smiling as he pushed aside a stack of books to properly look at his old friend. "Hello, Balthazar."

Balthazar was walking the length of a bookshelf, running his finger along the spines of the books as he walked toward his old friend. "I never thought you'd get this place back off the ground after that fire."

Aziraphale gave a little shrug. "Took more than a little work."

"A little… creative planning?"

Aziraphale just smiled, picking up one of the older volumes from the pile and setting it in front of him. "That, and Adam was kind enough to replace it to the best of his knowledge. Though… there still remains a good smattering of books I'm rather sure I hadn't carried." He ran his fingers over the bindings of the book in front of him and the smile turned distant. "Sadly, however, there are some things even the most creative of planners cannot replace."

Balthazar raised an eyebrow. "Books?"

Aziraphale nodded.

Balthazar shrugged, sitting on the edge of the table and examining the stack of books. "You could just make copies."

Aziraphale rolled his eyes and gave his younger brother a dry look. "No, Balthy, I'd _know_ they were copies. Wouldn't be the same."

"No," Balthazar chuckled. "I don't suppose it would be." He kicked his feet and sighed. "Well, I received your message, Raphael's bastards notwithstanding." He smiled at his older brother. "I don't suppose you asked me here for tea and tea alone."

Aziraphale pulled off his glasses, set them on the book and rubbed his eyes. "No… no, I didn't." He sighed. "However, that's not to say we shan't have a tea." He bustled off toward the stairs, still speaking. "After all, if a pair of old friends can't sit and chat over a tea, would the world even be worth saving anymore?"

Balthazar chuckled. "I don't suppose it would be." He spent a few minutes walking around the store, picked up a few volumes and flipped through them. Considering much of Aziraphale's collection had been turned to ash a good twenty years ago during one of the many narrowly-averted apocalypses, he'd recovered rather nicely. He looked to have a good deal more books than he'd had in the first place, new copies, rare scrolls. He'd even invested in a temperature controlled case to store the older pieces of his collection. Not that he _needed_ it. As an angel it would have been more than easy enough to keep the books from spoiling without such a case, however Aziraphale had always been one for sentimentality. And that was one of the things Balthazar liked best about him.

Several minutes passed before Aziraphale returned downstairs, balancing an entire tea set and the pot of freshly brewed tea. "Here we are," he said, setting the whole platter on the corner of the table without any books on it. "Might have steeped it a little long, but… no harm done. Here we are, milk no sugar if I recall?"

"You recall correctly," Balthazar said. He watched the other angel fix his cup, jaw working in silence. "Now, Azzie, I have to ask… what is this really about?"

Aziraphale added a little milk and stirred the cup with the spoon. "Can't we just enjoy our tea first?"

Balthazar sighed. "You know the longer I'm here the better chance we have of being found out, don't you?"

Aziraphale's throat worked and his back went rigid. "Well, if Raphael wants to find me, he most certainly knows where I can be found. I've made no secret of where I've set up shop, and I've certainly made no secret how I feel about apocalypses… apocalypsi? Apocalypi, I don't know, what would you call multiples of the ap—?"

"I don't really have the senority you do, Az," Balthazar said, lifting his cup to his mouth. "Raphael and his lackeys wouldn't think twice about making me into a nice pair of charcoal wings on the floor."

"They are rather dramatic that way," Aziraphale sighed, then gave him a little smirk. "But be honest, do you really think they'd give me any better a treatment?" He sighed as he stirred sugar into his own cup. "Heaven knows I've thrown my lot in with Castiel. It's no secret, and—!" he said, pointing his spoon at Balthazar. "I've a history for not being very good at following orders."

"Well, I suppose that makes two of us," Balthazar chuckled. He looked at the book that Aziraphale had out and frowned. "Looks a little heavy for light reading."

Aziraphale sighed. "Just… doing a little research."

Balthazar looked up and raised an eyebrow. "Strange to be researching an item that is still securely in hiding, isn't it?"

Aziraphale said nothing, just lifted the cup to his mouth and sipped his tea noisily.

Balthazar gaped at him. "_Isn't it?"_

More slurping.

"Az, tell me the spear is safe."

Aziraphale's cup was empty. He set it down and gave a weak shrug. "It… is… not reassembled as of yet."

Balthazar leaned back in his chair running his hands through his hair. "Bloody hell."

"This is why I wanted to wait until after tea."

Balthazar dropped his hands in his lap with a bitter laugh. "This isn't exactly a matter that can be ignored, Az. This is _**the spear**_ we're talking about. If Raphael got his hands on it, he…" Balthazar blinked. "Oh God… this isn't one of Cas's ideas, is it? Did Cas do this?"

Aziraphale shook his head. "No! No, absolutely not. Castiel may deal in rather more underhanded circles as of late, but trying to reassemble the spear is—"

"So who has it?" Balthazar asked. "A bunch of hairless apes trying to put the puzzle pieces together?"

Aziraphale lifted a fresh cup to his mouth, hesitating a moment before muttering, "in part," and taking a long sip.

Balthazar's eyes narrowed. "In part?"

"Well, there may be some demons involved."

"How many demons?"

Aziraphale cleared his throat and took another sip. "Several. Many. I don't know, I'm not entirely clear on the details of the situation—"

Balthazar stood, shaking his head. "Right. Well, it's been a joy as always, Az, but I suddenly realized I have no fucks left to give, so I'll actually be taking this as my cue to—"

"They have a Timelord."

Balthazar blinked. "What?"

Aziraphale's throat worked. "A Timelord, th…" He rubbed a hand up under his glasses and sighed. "They're planning to sacrifice a Timelord."

Balthazar stared a long while, unsure of whether to laugh or just sit in the middle of the room and rock back and forth until the world exploded. What he finally decided on was to take his seat again. "Alright. So how did this all happen?"

"Well, they've been pursuing the piece for the better part of two months, I couldn't tell toward what end but—"

"No, that's not what I'm asking, Az," Balthazar snapped. "I'm asking how a bunch of idiot humans and rot-for-brains demons figured out that killing a Timelord was like plugging directly into the celestial mainframe. Matter-of-fact, what the hell is a Timelord even doing here?"

Aziraphale's mouth worked silently and he shrugged. "I'm… not sure—"

"Az, this is way over their paygrade. Who's leading them?"

Aziraphale shrugged. "I don't have a name."

Balthazar let out a bitter laugh. "You don't have a name, but you've got details galore." He shook his head, rubbing a hand over his mouth. "You know, between you and Cas, I'm not even sure whose side I'm playing for anymore. Cas is so tight-lipped and everything you do is so hush-hush I wouldn't be surprised if you were keeping Cas in the dark."

Aziraphale shut his eyes and swallowed hard. "Castiel doesn't know I've called you hear about this."

"Bloody hell," Balthazar muttered, shaking his head. "You know, some family we are. We make human families look functional."

Aziraphale took a slow breath, speaking in a level, calm tone. "Balthazar, I asked you here because it was your regiment that oversaw the destruction of the spear—"

"Just breaking that thing apart killed two angels," Balthazar snapped. "What makes you think I want any part of this—?"

"Because if they manage to reassemble the spear, the death toll could be catastrophic," Aziraphale snapped. "You remember the last World War… what do you think might happen if the first thing slain with the spear was something beyond our celestial borders?"

For a long while, neither of the angels spoke. Balthazar's scowl turned to an angry smirk. "Fine," he muttered. "Fine, I'll call up Cas, we'll round up a team and we'll just—"

Aziraphale was already shaking his head. "N… no, Balthazar, I… you can't let Castiel know I've asked you to take care of this."

"What?" Balthazar snapped.

Aziraphale's throat worked. "You can't tell Castiel about the spear. And you can't let anyone know I was the one who asked you to investigate."

Balthazar shook his head. "You know, this cloak-and-dagger nonsense is getting quite old, Az."

"It is not my intention to be underhanded—"

"No, no, of course not," the other angel laughed. "You just… ask me to meet you at your store in the middle of the night, and then tell me I can't tell anyone where I've been, is that about right?"

Aziraphale sighed. "Just… be discreet? Please?"

Balthazar shrugged. "I make no promises."

A flutter of wings and the angel was gone. Aziraphale took off his glasses and set them on the table, hoping he'd made the right call.

The sun had long gone down, and the group was only just leaving the Green Pig. John and Dean had spent the last hour of sunlight breaking into the local pharmacy and taking everything they could possibly need. John went back to the pub to patch up Sam and Sherlock while Dean busied himself with finding a car still intact enough to get them back to London.

John took the stairs two at a time, finding Sam busy lighting the fireplace. Sherlock, on the other hand, was dead asleep on the couch, long limbs folded into a small ball of himself, red-stained hand pressed to the center of his chest. John would never get used to it; the sight of Sherlock Holmes sleeping. He glanced at Sam and set down one of the grocery bags loaded with medicine on the table. "How is he?"

"Well enough," Sam muttered. "Can't seem to stay asleep though." He looked at John. "It's not unusual. Most people who've been possessed say they have trouble sleeping for up to a month after the possession."

"And he's got trouble sleeping as it is," John muttered as he started sorting through the bags. "How long has he been sleeping now?"

"Not long," Sam muttered. "He woke up about ten minutes ago… didn't remember where he was or how he got here." At the look on John's face, he added, "he's going to be fine, John. It's just going to take some time."

John nodded. "Yeah… yeah, of course, just…" He cleared his throat and began going through the bag. "I'm going to need to change those dressings and check your stitches, Sam."

Sam nodded. "Okay, sure."

"Alright. Let's get you into the bathroom."

Dean hopped over another pile of broken glass and kicked the tires of the van. All four were intact, and it wasn't attractive, it was looking like it was their only option. He looked around out of habit before he remembered there was no one there to catch him smashing in a window. He pulled his jacket over his hand and punched through the glass of the driver's side window. He unlocked the door and let himself in, brushing the glass off the seat and examining the inside of the car.

It smelled of stale crackers and baby powder, and in the backseat there was a child's seat buckled in the longest of the rows of seats. Dean decided not to think about where that kid or their family was now. He pulled at panels until he found the wires he needed, but even then, it was hell trying to get the engine to turn over. It was taking far longer than he would have admitted to anyone, but in his defense, he _was_ tired. With Sam's injuries and Sherlock's possession, neither he or John had gotten a break yet. Even so, there was still the long drive back to that flat in London. John and he had discussed it.

While John had gotten something, it wasn't enough. Fife wasn't a location. It wasn't a city or a factory. It was a district. A big district all the way on the other side of the fucking island. And once they got there, there was the issue of figuring out where the Doctor was. And wherever he was, that's where Crowley would be. Though Dean wasn't sure he could believe that.

It wasn't just the idea that Crowley was involved with something like that. That hardly came as a surprise; the whole situation reeked of the sort of crazy bullshit Crowley had in spades. It wasn't even the fact that it might have been Crowley. It was the other element in play.

Dean had been muttering prayers under his breath in the mad dash from car-to-car from the Green Pig, trying several before finding one with four wheels and enough gas to get them to the next station. Truth be told, he'd been muttering prayers long before that. Under his breath, repeating them in his head like a mantra. This was some seriously bad shit they'd gotten themselves into, and this was about the point Cas would show up, touch them all on the heads and make it all better; get them back to civilization with tea and scones and some of Ms. Hudson's berry pie. It's how this should have gone down. But it was becoming increasingly more clear with each passing moment of silence that that was not going to happen.

Dean swore and dropped the wires, rubbing his eyes hard. He flexed his hands in front of him and shook his head. He'd been up too long. He couldn't focus and he couldn't get this damn van to start and _goddammit, Cas couldn't take two minutes out of his fucking schedule to even talk to him about any of this?_

He took a deep breath and touched the wires together again. This time, the engine turned. "Finally," Dean grumbled, pulling himself into the driver's seat. It was long past time to put this town behind them. And perhaps they'd finally get some answers.

Though Dean wasn't sure he wanted answers anymore.

Sam and John sat on the edge of the tub, John carefully examining his work from earlier. Sam watched John mixed a bit of clean, warm water with iodine in a bowl. "Careful now, this is going to sting a little."

Sam let out a hiss through his teeth as John poured the water over the stitches. He was gasping when it was done, raising an eyebrow. "A little?"

John was already prodding and examining the stitches. He smiled at Sam. "Well you can't say I don't do damn good work. Here, let's get those dressed again."

Sam watched a while in silence as John began laying gauze over his shoulder, tracing the line of stitches. "You going to be okay?"

John's hands hesitated a moment, but he didn't look up. He continued as though he'd heard nothing and muttered, "sorry—?"

"I've excorcised demons from friends before," Sam murmured. "I know how much that can mess a person up and I've been working with this sort of stuff for most of my life. I can't even imagine how you must feel."

John glanced up at Sam, shrugged. "I don't feel anything. Just part of the job, right?"

Sam's throat worked. "Yeah… sure."

Dean popped into the bathroom, rapping his knuckles on the doorframe. "Hey, found us a…" His mouth moved wordlessly before he slumped against the wall and muttered, "van."

"A van?" Sam asked. "You going to drive us to soccer practice?" He looked at John, obviously very pleased with the dig at his brother.

Dean rolled his eyes. "Right, well, I had to leave it running. I had a hell of a time getting it started and I'm not going to try for twice. How long before we can be on the road?"

"I just need to patch Sam up. Don't load the bags until I've gotten the supplies I need out of them."

Dean sighed, rubbing his eyes. "Anything I can do until then?"

John barely glanced up from his work. "Sure, alright. Let's move Sherlock to the car, backseat where he can lie down, yeah?"

Dean nodded. "Wake the detective, got it." He pushed off the wall and left the bathroom. He crossed the room, dark save the flames flickering in the fireplace. It gave an illusion of movement to Sherlock's still face, made the lines in his brow seem deeper. He was sleeping, but not restfully. Dean knew exactly the sort of sleep Sherlock Holmes was having. The sleep of nightmares, the waking dream where you were never safe and you were always running and…

He lay a hand on Sherlock shoulder to shake him. "Hey, Sherly—"

His hand had only just touched the other man's shoulder when Sherlock lurched awake, his hand on Dean's wrist. His eyes were wide and wild, darting around the dark room. His slow measured breaths were now deep gasps, sputtering through his lips as his eyes finally settled on Dean. The panic did not leave them, though his hand relaxed just a fraction. "Dean," he said, though it sounded like a question.

"Yeah," Dean said, nodding.

Then a question with genuine concern. "John?"

"He's in the bathroom patching up Sam," Dean murmured. He gestured. "Come on, we need to get on the road."

Sherlock made as though to hold out a hand for Dean to pull him to his feet when he stopped. They both did. One of his fingernails was black and swollen, two of the others gleamed like dark rubies in the firelight, the nails barely clinging to his skin. Sherlock blinked several times before lifting his good hand to dab away the fine sheen of sweat from his brow and upper lip. He pressed the injured hand to his chest and held up the good one to Dean.

Dean took it and pulled Sherlock to his feet, catching the taller man as he swayed forward, eyes fluttering. "You okay?"

Sherlock let out a deep, bitter laugh, not looking at Dean but at some far point in the darkness. "No. No, and I don't imagine I shall be for some time."

Dean stared at him a long while before nodding. "Yeah, I get that." He pulled Sherlock's arm around his shoulders. "Come on, let's get you to the car. Then you can go back to sleeping—"

"Oh, now that I'm not sure I want," Sherlock muttered as they limped toward the stairs together.

"Nightmares?" Dean asked. He already knew the answer.

Sherlock gnawed on his lower lip as they took the stairs one at a time. Even in the dark Dean could see the dark bruises and cuts on his face, the no-longer-swollen lip and the dried blood that formed a fine crust across the mark. "Dean Winchester," he muttered. "Do you know how much simpler my life was before you arrived? Before the Doctor arrived?"

Dean chuckled. "Trust me, Sherlock, I'm more than aware."

"The Doctor, he wasn't so terrible," Sherlock sighed, almost to himself. "It was, in some sense, science. Ridiculous, maddening science and for a while it eluded even my grasp, but this? The madness that you and your brother carry with you?" He shook his head and chuckled, high and frantic. "No. There is no sense, no science, no logic to it."

Dean frowned. "You saying you don't believe you were possessed?"

"I'm saying I have no choice but to believe," Sherlock snapped. "But all science, all logic, all…" He shook his head. "It changes things."

"Good change?"

Sherlock chuckled. "Nnnnno… no, I really don't think so."

"Yeah, well," Dean mumbled, opening the sliding door to the back seat and helping Sherlock in. "If it's any consolation, this is about rock bottom." He helped Sherlock settle into the back seat and flashed him a grin. "Things can't get much worse than this, can they?"

Sherlock gave him a sad smile. "Of course they can. They always can."

Dean's jaw worked. He leaned on the door and shrugged. "Well, we're not going to let them." He didn't stay to hear Sherlock's response. He walked straight back into the pub and found Sam shrugging on his shirt while John finished gathering the bags. "We ready?"

John nodded. "We're ready."

Dean sighed. "Then let's move out."

The room was lit by the hot, orange glow of the fireplace and the flashlight John Watson had taped at just the right angle to shine down on the desk and Sherlock's hand. The power wasn't working and the sun had slipped down over the horizon far more quickly than they'd expected. The group had hoped to be on the road by nightfall, but so far there were in no condition to go anywhere just yet.

Sherlock's hadn't so much as twitched as John pulled off two of his four fingernails. He swore like a sailor, he bit down on the knuckles of his other hand to try and smother back the screams, but his hand on the table had remained perfectly still. He was breathing hard by the time John had his fingers cleaned and sanitized enough to bandage them up. Sherlock caught Sam's eye, scowling at the man who nearly looked to be smiling. "What?" he snapped.

Sam shrugged. "Nothin', you just… sound human again." He smiled. "It's good."

Sherlock took a low deep breath. For a moment, he looked like he might say something more. His mouth shut and he nodded. "It is good," he said.

"Hey," Dean said, coming up the stairs with a several plastic bags in each hand, all filled to the brim with orange pill bottles. "Broke into the drug store. Power was out so I couldn't read the bottles so…" He shrugged, holding up the bags. "I took everything." He gestured. There's more in a shopping cart downstairs, I just—"

"What about gauze?" John asked, not looking up from Sherlock's hand. "Did you find the gauze?"

Dean set the bags on the ground and opening one of the bag, pulled out several and set them on the table opposite Sherlock. "Here. And I've got a bunch of those stretchy, wrap-around bandages downstairs in the cart."

"Good," John murmured, "that means I can change the dressings on Sam."

"We don't have time for this," Sherlock muttered, glaring at his bad hand.

"Well, we're _making_ time for it," John said as patiently as he could manage. "Riddle me this, consulting detective, number one killer in hospitals is—?"

"Infection," Sherlock snapped halfway through John's sentence.


End file.
